


Settling for a Miracle

by babywarg (morphaileffect)



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Drama, M/M, Romance, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-01 08:01:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17240510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morphaileffect/pseuds/babywarg
Summary: Two years into his studies in Kamar-Taj, Stephen dreams about rituals that would enable him to draw power from the Dark Dimension and regain control of his hands. He leaves Kamar-Taj and resumes his life as a neurosurgeon - but as a changed man, unable to appreciate material comforts as he used to.Soon after his return, he gets in touch with Tony Stark, who engages his help in developing new medical technology. He and Stark foster a relationship which lasts two years - until Stark, who is not a master of the mystic arts, finds himself face to face with Kaecilius, in a battle for the fate of his reality.





	1. The Return

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at a bit of a loss as to where the _Doctor Strange_ movie fits in the MCU timeline - but I'm going by two things I've read online: 1) it took Stephen around four years to master the mystic arts (EDIT: fan speculation, but I'm running with it for this story), and 2) he was around (still his asshole surgeon self) in the year the battle of New York took place.
> 
> For the purpose of this story, Stephen had his accident and went to Kamar-Taj before the NYC attack (first Avengers movie) in 2012. Then he returned to his practice in NYC soon before _Captain America: the Winter Soldier_ (2014) and continued practicing medicine until the events of _Doctor Strange_ (2016). This means he was with Tony Stark through _Avengers: Age of Ultron_ (2015) and the humongous fallout in _Captain America: Civil War_ (2016).
> 
> Second scene in this chapter partly inspired by [this picset](https://twitter.com/hopelessrdj/status/1079468981940088833).

The knowledge came to him in a dream. He came to the Ancient One with it, because he wished to understand.

To his surprise, after he spoke, the Ancient One's face darkened. She brought them into the Mirror Dimension, where they could talk in absolute confidence.

"It's very important, Stephen, try to remember," she said to him, her anxiety rare and almost electric, "was there anyone with you in the dream? Do you recall a face, or a voice, perhaps?"

Stephen shook his head. "I was alone. The pages were just floating in front of me. I'd just finished mastering Sanskrit the other night, so I could read them..."

"Don't you think it's suspicious? That the spells would come to you in a dream _only after_ you've read enough of the ancient texts to understand them."

Stephen had to admit: the timing of the appearance of the pages in his dream hadn't occurred to him. Was it a trap? If so, who might have set it?

"Do you remember the spells?"

Stephen paused again. He could tell his master wasn't going to like what he was going to say. But he had to be truthful, if he wanted answers of his own.

"Yes," he answered. "Every word."

The Ancient One shut her eyes. A small terse sigh escaped her, as if she took a punch that hurt her more than expected.

She turned away and paced around the space she had made for them. In the meantime, Stephen weighed the possible outcomes of this scenario.

Was he going to be cast out?

Imprisoned and placed under observation?

Was the Ancient One going to tear into his mind, layer by layer, until she found who had gotten into his head?

It was _forbidden_ knowledge - Stephen was aware of it. There were books that were implicitly off-limits to novices, even if explicitly, "no knowledge is forbidden in Kamar-Taj."

He'd stolen some of those books from under the acerbic librarian Wong's nose. He knew _why_ they were forbidden.

Even if all he technically knew at the time was minor spells - like astral projection, and how to use his sling ring.

"What do you plan to do with this knowledge, Stephen?" the Ancient One asked, when she had stopped pacing and faced him again.

Stephen licked his lips. "First," he said slowly, "I want to know the repercussions. If it's true that I can...channel power from the Dark Dimension into my own body..."

"Yes?" The Ancient One already knew what he was going to say. The grim look on her face said it. She just wanted to hear it from his lips.

"...I can make my body do whatever I want. The way Jonathan Pangborn does it - using magic, constantly, to walk. I can get my hands back."

"Yes." The sadness in that remark slid right over Stephen's notice.

"It's magic on an entirely different level, one I never even knew was possible before now. Cellular regeneration. If I do it right, I can even live..." The word had difficulty leaving his lips. "...forever?"

It came out as more of a question, and was treated as such.

"Not forever," the Ancient One answered. "Everything has an end. You can live for a long, long time, yes. But only as long as you can."

Sometimes the Ancient One spoke in riddles, and there was no point in trying to decipher them. Stephen decided that this was one of those times.

"What will it do to me?"

The Ancient One locked her gaze with his as she spoke.

"Honestly, Stephen? If you take only a little, only as much as you need...absolutely nothing. You will live as you wish, until your natural end, with no ill consequence." Her voice assumed a slightly lower warning tone. "But everyone who can draw power from the Dark Dimension has the ability to draw too much, and become drunk on it in the process. That's when it destroys you."

"It hasn't destroyed _you._ "

She smiled mirthlessly. He knew. Of course he did; the rituals were on the pages that had appeared to him in the dream. She didn't need the Dark Dimension's mark on her forehead for him to be able to tell.

"There are those who will disagree with you on that," she said, almost jokingly. "Regardless of the good you can do with power drawn from the Dark Dimension, it is still tampering with natural law. And when your back is against the wall, what's to stop you from doing more?"

" _Have_ you done more?"

Her smile held steady.

"Defying natural law is, and will forever be, a crime. Remember that, Stephen."

It was one of the first and most fundamental lessons ingrained in him in the Temple. He would always remember it. But it was also one of the lessons he always had trouble accepting - there was always a seed of doubt.

In the mind of Stephen Strange - both medical expert and novice of the mystic arts - the concept of "natural law" ran afoul of science in some ways. Not all, and not in the most important ways, but still, some.

Wasn't it tampering with natural law, after all, if you extended a person's life chemically, or with the help of cybernetics? Wouldn't it be, in some way, in defiance of fate?

But he knew it was hypocritical of him to think these things. He had come to Kamar-Taj to get his hands fixed, in clear resistance of the bleak future he saw before him. That was always the primary goal.

He had not come all this way, spent all this much money and time, just to fail.

"I can get my hands back," he said to the Ancient One. "Crime or not, why would I say no to that?"

She opened her mouth, about to say more. Stephen prepared himself for it. She was going to tell him - remind him, really - that there were bigger things than oneself, that one could live in service of things greater than one's own ego. That there were entities beyond this world, and the worlds beyond this, that watch this world with evil intent, and they needed to be kept at bay.

Worse, she was going to tell him something he had never heard before: that he was necessary. That he was, in spite of all the instruction he received, _important_ , and that greater accomplishments awaited him, if he only looked beyond himself.

But that wasn't what the Ancient One said. She shut her lips again and they formed a new smile, one that held a subtle shadow of farewell.

"Why indeed, Mister Strange," she said softly. "Or, should I say, Doctor Strange?"

 

***

"...Doctor Strange."

Inwardly, Stephen groaned. He had come to the fundraiser straight from the ER (he'd showered and changed into a tuxedo at the hospital) and he was tired of socializing, tired of hobnobbing with the New York elite: the same old faces who said they were "glad to see him back," and yet had forgotten all about him during his two years in self-exile.

He just wanted to stay out in this balcony alone, and quietly finish his first and final drink of champagne for the evening, before driving himself home. In his cozy, unpretentious Insight. Back to his humble flat in Queens. He ought to have spent enough time here to please the hospital administrators who had required him to attend this fundraiser.

But someone had found where he was hiding, and it seemed he was going to stay a bit longer than intended.

"Stephen Strange?" The man approaching had a familiar face. He held out a hand for Stephen to shake, "Tony Stark, Master of Ceremonies."

The one who owned the place. The person behind the fundraiser. Not easily dismissible.

"Mister Stark." He reached for the hand. Tony Stark had a powerful grip, the force difficult to match even with magic keeping Stephen's scarred hands strong.

The hand was flesh, but the grip was iron.

"I've been looking forward to meeting you all evening." Stark stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the railing of the balcony, just beside Stephen. "They tell me you're the best neurosurgeon on the planet. What I _wasn't_ told was that you were better-looking in person, than in your Vanity Fair shoots."

Stephen looked away, smiling but embarrassed.

"Well, those shoots were from a few years back," he told Stark. "I was a different man."

"Oh, clearly. It's obvious you've upgraded."

Stephen's eyebrow rose as he met Tony Stark's gaze again. If there was one thing he knew from his years hanging out at exclusive gatherings, it was that billionaires weren't subtle (or even particularly skillful) flirts. People who already win at life with minimal effort don't bother with mastering the art of seduction.

But somehow, Tony Stark was different. The man exuded confidence, but not arrogance. Or, at least, not _too much_ confidence, that he relied on it exclusively.

Still, that was all Stephen had the energy to notice; he was tired and in no mood to flirt back.

"I wouldn't call myself the best neurosurgeon on the planet, Mr. Stark," Stephen gently corrected. "Since the accident that injured my hands, two years ago, my record for saving lives has been less than perfect."

" ‘Less than perfect’ could still mean pretty damn good," Stark corrected, in turn, unfailingly upbeat. "And you know what I heard? Your perfect record was ruined only recently, and that was because you started working on call at the emergency room. Call me jaded, doc, but sometimes people get rushed to the ER with one foot in death's door. If they're already on their way out, not even the best doctors could work their magic and bring them back."

The word "magic" was a giant needle through Stephen's heart. It was true, he had lost some patients in the ER - and each time it happened, he was tempted to pull magic from the Dark Dimension to save them. So very tempted.

But he always stopped himself in time. Always.

_I only take enough, and I only take for myself. I have chosen to be selfish._

"That's...very kind of you to say, Mr. Stark."

"That's not all I want to say, though," Stark said quickly. "Thing is, I specifically asked for the best surgeons in the city to attend this fundraiser, because there's something I need their help on. There's something I need _your_ specific help on. Will you hear me out?"

_Do I have a choice? It's your party._

"Of course, Mr. Stark. I'd be happy to help, if I can."

Stark started talking shop. It was natural to him, pitching ideas, with the absolute fearlessness of someone who knew his ideas were _great_ and would not be denied. And even if they _would_ be denied, for one reason or another, they would find homes elsewhere, and create profit there - so really, it would be foolish to deny them.

What Stark told Stephen about was this: he was developing a line of non-invasive surgical, therapeutic and rehabilitative tools involving nanotech and imaging software. Since neuroscience was one of the most detail-oriented medical disciplines, he had been having trouble finding an expert who could help him streamline and fine-tune the relevant tools, so they would be useful to actual practitioners.

He'd thought of tapping Stephen for the project two years ago, when Stark Industries started developing it...but Stephen had already relocated halfway around the world and cut himself off from nearly all human contact. So when Stark heard that Stephen Strange was back in active duty after two long years, he just knew he had to get in touch.

"Weirdly enough, people are unwilling to have their names attached to the endeavor." Stark shrugged. "Can't blame them. This baby is revolutionary and if it fails, their names get dragged down with it. But if you're coming onboard, we can take our time, and we'll make sure there's zero chance of failing."

There was something in how he said "we" that gained Stephen's confidence - it was like he meant it. Tony Stark was going to work _with_ Stephen Strange on this project, and he was going to be hands-on.

Working on a project of this scale would no doubt take up much of Stephen's energy and time. Would it be a good trade-off to actually saving lives?

"It's a very attractive proposal, Mr. Stark," he remarked. "I just have an issue with the name of one of the projects you want to launch. Wouldn't the acronym be...BARF?"

Stark grinned. Then burst into laughter.

He had an uninhibited laugh, which Stephen found charming. It felt like he'd known only discipline and self-denial these past two years, and this was the first time he was really seeing all that gleefully thrown out the window.

"Oh God, sorry," Stark said between breaths. "I just knew you'd catch that. Yep, I named it myself! The techs lost all color in their faces, I swear." His laughter tapered off, then he cleared his throat and straightened up, addressed Stephen with an almost juvenile eagerness. "That's not, uh, a problem for you, is it? Because really, it's just a name. If you're coming on board, we can change it."

It was a truly groundbreaking project. Binarily Augmented Retro-Framing would interface directly with neural input and allow people to interact with their memories.

Stephen couldn't give a shit about the name.

"It's not a problem for me," he readily admitted. "It's catchy. And if what you say is true, it could save lives, which is the most important thing."

"Damn right it could save lives," Stark said forcefully. "What do you say, doc? Wanna be a hero?"

Another word, another giant needle. Stephen fell still.

"You're the heroes, Mr. Stark," he said softly, sadly, after a pause. "Heroism isn't...for me."

To his surprise, Stark smiled, laid a hand on his shoulder.

Stephen anticipated an iron grip there, too, but his touch this time was gentle.

"Doc...you work in the ER. You stick to your oath, to save lives no matter what. You're a hero in my book."

He gave Stephen's shoulder a pat, before reaching into his coat pocket.

"And besides," he blithely continued, "we never even discussed payment. If you weren't a real hero, wouldn't that be first on your agenda?"

Stephen had to stop and think about that.

In the meantime, Stark brought a calling card out from his breast pocket, handed it to Stephen.

"This can turn the medical world on its head," he said to Stephen. "I'm offering you a chance to be part of the revolution."

"I'm grateful for the opportunity," Stephen said, as he put the card in his own pocket. "One last question: if I do agree to help, is there a fighting chance one of the tools can be named 'the Strange device'?"

Stark laughed heartily again.

Stephen could really get used to that laugh.

"More than a fighting chance, doc." Stark started to walk away from the balcony. "Just get your pretty face on board and we'll call anything you want, whatever you want."

_"Pretty face"...?_

Stephen had to smile, despite himself. "Duly noted, Mr. Stark."

"Tony, please." He laid a hand on the middle of his chest, where Stephen imagined the arc reactor was - the thing that branded him as Iron Man. "I hope to hear from you again soon, Doctor Strange."

"Stephen," he corrected.

Tony's grin lit up the entire balcony.

"Stephen," Tony echoed. "Enjoy the party."

Stephen quietly watched Tony Stark go. He found, to his surprise, that he was somehow energized by their conversation.

Perhaps he _was_ staying a bit longer at this party, after all.


	2. Peter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen finds it difficult to readjust to life in New York. While at a crossroads, he has a heart-to-heart talk with a young neighbor named Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I've decided to make Stephen neighbors with May and Peter Parker. Since _Spider-Man: Homecoming_ never said _when_ Peter's Uncle Ben died (did he even die??), I'm placing it at 2014, two years before Civil War and when Tony Stark gave 14-year-old Peter his first functional Spidey suit.
> 
> And no, this 12-year-old Peter doesn't have his powers yet. But he _has_ been living with his Aunt May and Uncle Ben for a while.

Coming home to his new ("new" was a relative word - the building was old, with cracks and leaks in likely places) apartment in Queens continued to be a weird experience for Stephen.

He had to build up his personal finances from zero, and considering his credit history, it was understandable that reputable financial institutions were not jumping at the first chance to lend to him again.

But with the help of good friends like Christine Palmer and...Christine Palmer, he was able to find an affordable place not too far from his hospital in Manhattan, and easily settle in.

Still, it was weird. At first, he thought it was because he was used to luxury - his new flat was less than half the size of his old Midtown one, and with considerably fewer things.

Then he realized: it was because he had gotten used to living in the most austere conditions. The first few nights, he found the mattress Christine had helped him purchase too soft; he slept on the floor.

Two years away from urban life had changed him. Life in the city seemed too fast, too chaotic, too reliant on _stuff_.

It wasn't like sliding back into an old role at all, as he'd expected - it was more like trying to fit into a role that had become way too small.

Fortunately, he had amiable neighbors, at least. On his first night there, a woman living across the hall who introduced herself as May came by with pastries she'd baked herself (they were...not the best, but not inedible, and he wasn't exactly in a position to refuse free food), and he labeled her instantly in his mind as "the sad-eyed woman who laughed a lot."

During special occasions, May would come by again with baked goods, or else send her nephew Peter, a fast-talking, anxious preteen who never called her "Aunt" and seemed to mirror some of her sadness, but had trouble meeting Stephen's gaze.

Stephen recognized the preteen's avoidance - it was a mixture of grief and guilt. But guilt for what?

Peter was the one who'd casually let slip that May's husband Ben had died recently, from a bullet fired by a mugger at close range. But Stephen didn’t ask for more details. He kept his distance. He felt like there was much in his head that needed sorting out, before he could let other people in.

It would have been easier if adjusting to Stephen's new-old life was simply about relocating, and being around more stuff than he felt he actually needed.

But it wasn't.

 

***

 

"Stephen." Christine laid a hand on his arm.

That was the only time he took his hands off the patient's chest.

For the first time, he began to hear the long, uninterrupted whine of the flatlined ECG. It was the only sound in the room, apart from his own heart pounding in his ears, his own ragged breathing.

He looked down at his scarred hands: so strong now, so steady - and so useless.

The other nurses and doctors in the room were staring expectantly at him. Stephen stepped back from the table, from the corpse he had been trying to revive. Without a word, he turned and left the operating theatre, leaving Christine to call time of death.

 

***

 

He took too long washing his hands, and Christine caught up with him.

She started washing her hands in silence in the sink beside his.

He finished, and dried off, but realized he didn't have the strength to leave. He stood, waiting for her to acknowledge his weakness and speak first.

So she did.

"How is it that you've been a doctor," she softly began, "a _surgeon_ , for this long, and you still haven't gotten used to losing people under your care?"

Christine spoke without judgment. This was what he had always treasured about her, though he was not always able to recognize it in a timely manner.

"I spent a good part of my career avoiding the slightest chance of losing people under my care," he answered back in a whisper. "Perfect record, remember?"

"Yes, your precious record," she sighed. It was not a pleasant memory, for either of them. "But Stephen...did that really cushion you from death? It was all around you, all the time. We talked about it _in bed_."

"And that’s one more item to add to the long list of things I haven't apologized for." Stephen muttered remorsefully. "There were times we talked when it was extremely likely that I wasn't...really...listening." He looked away from her. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well," she said, one corner of her lips raised. "I just thought that, even if you didn't listen to me or talked about it, it still got to you."

It should have, shouldn't it? Life and death came hand in hand for doctors. Death was inevitable, but it was still the enemy. That came with the oath; that was the deal.

"We fight death," Christine clarified for him. "We fight losing battles, sometimes. But what's important is, we fight." She faced him squarely, laid her hands lightly on his shoulders. "We're the last string keeping people bound to their lives on this earth. But sometimes, even we have to let go."

He shook his head. "You don't understand, Christine..."

He shouldn't have said that. As soon as he did, he wanted to take it back. He shut his eyes tight and swallowed the rest of his words:

 _I_ have _power over death. I could save lives, if that was what I wanted. I don't have to let go of the lives on my table._

_All I have to let go of is my hands._

Stephen was quite sure no other surgeon had this much on their conscience. It was bad enough for some surgeons to deal with run-of-the-mill messiah complexes, but his own complex just _had_ to have that little something extra.

But Christine didn't need to hear that.

No one did.

It was a bargain only _he_ had to live with.

"What don't I understand, Stephen?" Christine asked.

Stephen had a few seconds to come up with an answer that would draw Christine away from the truth, while not being strictly untrue.

He came up with this:

"I left and came back a different man. I thought working in the ER would help me adjust to the changes. But I don't think I'm even a surgeon anymore. I...I don't know what I am."

Christine wrapped her arms around him. He let her. He would be lying to himself if he ever thought Christine's friendly affections were not helpful him in any way. They were. Always, and greatly.

She hugged him often - and if he was going to be honest with himself: each time she did, it flooded him with warmth that he didn't feel he deserved.

"Maybe you should step away," she suggested. "Just for a little while. Maybe two years was too little time. Maybe it wasn't enough that you got your hands back."

"But what do I do?" he asked her miserably, as he returned her embrace. "Where do I go? I can't go back to Kathmandu. I've done all I could do there."

That wasn't true. He'd left Kathmandu without having learned much. Perhaps, if he'd stayed longer in Kamar-Taj, he might have learned about more useful things - such as ways to see into the future. Into many possible futures - his own and others'.

But he'd already said his goodbyes, and going back was likely to give rise to more questions than answers.

Asking a wise, dear and loyal friend what to do was the next best recourse.

"You told me Tony Stark made you an offer," Christine said. "Don't you want to give it a shot?"

"Tony Stark makes many offers, to many people, in a single day," Stephen said acidly. "If I accept, what would that make me? A notch in his bedpost?"

Even as he said it, Stephen noted how petty it made him sound. The knee-jerk egotism turned his stomach.

"Don't be crass," Christine sniffed. "Stephen, listen...if what he's offering ends up being what you need...what's wrong with taking it?"

Hearing it from her made a difference. She was unfailingly practical when the situation warranted it.

"It's not about _not_ being special at all," Christine clarified, "it's about being _the only one_ qualified to do the work. If I heard you right, Stark said that much, and I think you should give that some weight."

The words resonated with Stephen. There had been a time when he cherished the knowledge that he was the only one in the world with a brain and hands like his - in fact, it had been the sole foundation of his self-worth.

He didn't like thinking of himself as a hero, but thinking of himself as an expert without peer?

That was familiar.

"And if you really don't want to work with Tony Stark," Christine ventured, "you could always teach?"

Stephen grunted.

"Me, with young people?" he scoffed. "It's not enough that I can't save lives, I have to ruin them, too?"

A small chuckle escaped Christine. She kissed him on the cheek.

"How would you know you ruin lives?" she challenged him. "Have you actually tried?"

 

***

 

That night, Stephen had energy to spare, so he took the stairs to the seventh floor, where his apartment was.

He came across young Peter Parker at the stairwell.

The brown-haired boy wasn't exactly in the way. He was sitting on the steps and leaning against the wall, looking haunted and tired. He cast a brief, blank gaze toward Stephen, then went back to sulking about something.

Stephen could have walked past him. He'd never really been the kind to stop and ask what was wrong. If the child had had a physical injury, then sure, he could've done something.

None of his training, in medical school or in Kamar-Taj, covered dealing with a situation like this.

He really should have kept on walking.

But he didn't.

"Peter?" He stopped at the landing, where he stood almost at eye level with the child. "What are you doing down here? Is anything wrong?"

Peter still wouldn't look him in the eye.

"Hey, Dr. Strange," he greeted weakly. He quickly wiped his face with his hands, as if that would make him stop looking so worn-out instantly. "Nothing's wrong. I just can’t sleep, so I stepped out for a bit of fresh air. It's nice and cool out here."

It _was_ cool, but it was also downright chilly. Not exactly the healthiest time for delicate-looking young people to be out. Not to mention, a closed stairwell wasn't exactly the best place to get "fresh air."

"It's late. Won't May get worried?"

"Oh," Peter mumbled, "I snuck out. Please don't tell her you saw me. I'll be back upstairs soon, I promise."

Stephen could have left it at that. But he didn't do that, either.

He quietly sat beside the boy, depositing the paper bag of groceries he was carrying onto his lap. He rummaged around in it for ready-made food that they could share.

It didn't take long for him to find one. "Sandwich?"

It was a good thing he usually bought two sandwiches in the evening, when he caught the deli still open and pricing its breads half-off - one was for eating at breakfast. But this was a special case, and he didn't spare a moment to mourn not having anything ready to eat in the morning.

Peter hesitated, but took what was being offered.

"Thanks, doc. Is this number five, from across the street?"

"Yep. Got 'em just before closing."

"My Uncle Ben loves these." Peter caught himself. "... _Loved_ these. I mean."

There was a long pause as Peter collected himself. When he finally took a bite of the sandwich in his hands, it seemed to Stephen that he was just doing it to be polite.

"You must miss him," Stephen remarked.

Peter sighed around the mouthful of bread he was slowly chewing.

"Not as much as May does."

"Still." Stephen prepared to take a bite out of his own sandwich. He didn't want to let the boy eat alone. "May isn't the only one dealing with his loss."

Peter didn't answer this. But when he opened his mouth again to speak, he talked about how much his uncle liked the deli across the street, and how he liked his sandwiches - with pickles. Lots of pickles.

Stephen answered that he wasn't a big fan of pickles, but he did like it when sandwiches were squished as flat as they could go.

That made Peter smile. "You too, huh?"

That smile seemed to have opened the floodgates. Peter talked about food, about his aunt's cooking, how his uncle always prepared their meals and made sure there was something in the fridge for Peter, a "growing boy," to eat as soon as he got home from school...

Somehow all the talking led to his parents - how Peter barely remembered them, and how Ben and May stood for the only parents he ever really knew. And how he was afraid he didn't have the strength his aunt needed, now that his uncle was gone, and all they had to rely on was each other.

He never told his uncle Ben he loved him. They just didn’t have that kind of relationship, you know. May says it to both of them all the time, and they both get to say it back to her easily, it’s just...

Suddenly, Stephen understood the guilt he’d seen on Peter’s face the first time they met.

There was so much he hadn’t said.

Peter wanted to cry. Stephen knew that from the way the boy’s voice shook, the way he trembled sometimes. But there was a lot of pride in Peter Parker, a sort of pride Stephen recognized in himself.

He needed to prove to others that he was strong and grown-up. That he could carry the grief and the memories and the responsibilities he was suddenly saddled with.

Stephen remembered the deaths he himself had lived through, how he had never cried at any of them. And he wasn't about to force Peter to cry, even if perhaps that was what the boy needed.

He just let Peter talk until he had nothing left to say - and that turned out to be long after both their sandwiches were gone.

That was enough for them. It had to be.

And when he was all talked out, Peter heaved a long sigh, sat up, and mustered another smile.

"Thanks for sitting out here with me, Dr. Strange," he said quietly. "Means a lot, you know?"

"Of course, Peter," he answered. "Just remember, if you or your aunt need anything, I'm right across the hall."

...Why did he say that?

So much for keeping his distance.

As soon as he did, he wanted to regret it.

He imagined Peter and/or May knocking on his door at odd hours of the night, with some excuse or another to hang with him.

But he found, to his surprise, that he didn't regret it as much as he did. Neither did he fear the prospect of receiving them at odd hours.

"That means a lot, too," Peter said. He looked like he was about to say more, but he clamped his lips shut and got to his feet.

Stephen walked the boy back to his flat, where he soundlessly let himself in. With a final word for Peter to get a good night's sleep, Stephen turned and walked back to his own apartment.

He put away his groceries, washed up and went to bed, knowing what he needed to do first thing in the morning.

 

***

 

"Mister Stark."

 _"Doctor Strange,"_ said the man on the other end of the line. _"I thought I asked you to call me 'Tony.' I'm going to start calling you 'Stephen' after this, because you told me to do so and unlike_ some people, _I know how to follow instructions."_

Stephen had to smile at this.

"You'll need to understand that following instructions isn't my forte," he warned. "If you don't know that yet, it's going to be a sore point for us, going forward."

_"Does that mean you're on board?"_

Stephen paused. "I’ll no longer be on call at my hospital, but I won't be able to report to you seven days a week. I don’t plan to completely let go of my practice."

 _"Not a problem,"_ Tony Stark assured him. _"It’ll probably just take us longer than we expected to finish, but we'll go by your timetable."_

Tony was really good at making Stephen feel like he was in control of the operation he was being asked to lead. Stephen was smart enough to know that this was probably not the case, but he also had to admit: he appreciated the ego-stroking.

_"You don't have to worry about transportation, either. The lab is actually in Midtown, near your hospital. We can even set you up with a new place around there, if you like."_

Stephen blinked.

"I'm sorry - a new place?"

 _"One more suited to an expert of your stature. Rent-free, of course."_ Tony said all this with ease, as if it had all been taken care of already - primped and gift-wrapped. All Stephen had to do was accept it. _"You'll be central to the project, doc, and I want you to feel like it. No more one-bedroom on the seventh floor of a 20-year-old building in Queens. Only the best for the best."_

Stephen didn’t bother asking how Tony knew where he lived. Tony, with his unlimited corporate resources, probably even knew all about Stephen’s money woes - but he decided not to focus on that.

He focused instead on the offer; it was a hell of a lure. Better living conditions - _rent-free_ , no less - might bring him closer to the person he used to be, before leaving for Kamar-Taj. Perhaps it would even help him settle into old patterns.

However, that also meant being beholden to Tony Stark and his handouts. It would be restricting his freedom - trapping himself in material things all over again.

"I'll have to pass," he easily said. "It's a very generous offer, Tony. But I'm fine where I am."

He could hear the shrug on the other end of the line. _"Suit yourself. All that matters to me, Stephen, is that you're comfortable while failing to follow instructions. Without you, the project can’t even leave the ground."_

 _The only one qualified to do the work,_ Christine had said. Maybe this was his place in the world, after all.

"No need to worry about my comfort, Tony." It was Stephen's turn to sound reassuring in this transaction. "Just give me the freedom to do my thing. You're in good hands."


	3. Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen works part-time for Tony Stark, but their relationship ends up being more than employer-employee. Stephen asks what’s really going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this chapter take place in the course of a year after Stephen’s return from Kamar-Taj. I’m placing the last scene in or around 2015.
> 
> I had not quite expected the relationship between Tony and Stephen to be this slow a burn - but it’s working out (I hope)!
> 
> Stephen's colleague Sandra Clarion is an original character. Nice name for a superhero, though, yeah? :D

Tony gestured to the piece of paper in his hands. "You want to delete _all_ of these modules?"

Stephen shrugged. "You said to cut out the non-essentials. So I did."

Tony turned his attention back to the paper, stroked his chin briefly.

"Yeah, but see - this would take up over half of the entire services array, and some restructuring will need to be done to the core. This might set us back a couple of weeks, if you’re okay with that?"

"I looked at the functionalities from the point of view of a surgeon. It's still from that point of view that I'm defending my feedback." He was prepared to be hard-nosed on this, but he figured that a softer tone of voice would get better results. "Trust me, Tony. You won't be able to sell a non-invasive surgical application with that much bulk. You can make all the other functions optional, if you really want to keep them - but what I've listed there is all you need for the base product."

Tony groaned and scratched his head.

"Gotta say, the design team's not going to like it. They worked their asses off to streamline everything already, so to cut things down further will mean an overhaul. "

"I thought _you_ were the design team," Stephen wryly noted.

"Yeah, and you can see you’re giving me a hard time!" Tony exclaimed. "Are you _absolutely sure_ about this?"

Stephen raised an eyebrow. Tony sighed.

"Okay, doc, I trust you. We'll need an extra week, maybe two, to fix this up, but we'll manage."

Tony set the paper down on his desk.

"Now that's out of the way, how are you finding your new lab?"

Stephen could have easily (and honestly) said it was the most advanced research facility he'd ever set foot in, and shamelessly gushed over the convenience offered by the holographic interface - but he was enjoying being listened to. He coolly answered "It's...adequate."

"Adequate is good." Tony was not visibly fazed by this display of dominance. "I don't want you wanting for anything. If you need something, you let me know, all right?"

"I will," Stephen said with a nod. "I'll have time to drop by the lab again tomorrow, so I may have some suggestions to give you over our planned dinner this Thursday."

Tony smiled. "Sounds good, doc."

 

***

 

As he made his way out of the building, Stephen came across someone he knew: Sandra Clarion, a cardiothoracic surgeon based in the Upper East Side.

She was just coming out of a meeting, too - apparently, they were both in Stark Tower on that day to attend meetings regarding their respective Stark-funded projects.

Stephen had some free time, and apparently, so did Sandra, so they chatted while walking out of the building together.

They couldn't give too much away, of course, but they could at least gripe in generalities; Sandra was saying she had had _enough_ of meetings. She was part of a team that was developing new medicines (she couldn't say for what) for Stark Industries’ pharmaceutical arm, and she was tired of butting heads with people both on big things, like budget and delivery timelines - and small things, like whose turn it was to fill up the coffee machine at the lab.

Stephen sympathized, but had to admit he couldn't share her pain: as far as he knew, he was the only one in charge of the projects to which he was assigned. He had no set times, so he could report to his lab any time he wanted - and no team with whom he occasionally needed to butt heads. In fact, the only person with whom he corresponded was Tony Stark, and they hadn't really disagreed on much, so far.

This made Sandra stop walking and look at him incredulously.

"The man himself?" she asked. "Seriously?"

Stephen frowned, puzzled. "...The man himself, yes."

"That's...interesting." She resumed walking, and so did Stephen. "I was told Mr. Stark never personally oversees anything. He's got a supervisory board for med-tech projects and he leaves everything in their hands. You're literally the _only_ consultant I've met who talks to him directly."

Stephen knew it was a bad time to mention that he actually had Tony's private, personal number. Or that they were on a first name basis. Or that they were scheduled to have dinner on Thursday.

"Unless _you're_ the project?" Sandra's smile held a touch of mischief. "Forgive me, but that's the only explanation I can come up with off the cuff."

"I think you're overthinking it," Stephen admonished. "Our research is confidential. He just wants to keep the information flow close."

" _All_ our research is confidential," Sandra pointed out. "But apparently, when it comes to you, he wants to keep it _especially_ close."

Like Stephen's old self, people knew Sandra Clarion to be exceptionally direct. He figured it was a useful trait for a medical professional, but there were times - such as this one - when he was glad he and Sandra didn't share a specialty, so they didn't have to run into each other and get to talking like this often.

They stopped walking where Sandra could hail a cab. Stephen would walk back to his car as soon as she was safely in one.

"Whatever you're insinuating," he told her, "I doubt a man like Tony Stark has the time for it. On top of owning a mega-corporation, he's still Iron Man."

Sandra patted him on the shoulder.

"Hey, wouldn't be hard to see why he'd take a special interest. You're Doctor Strange, after all - one-of-a-kind miracle worker, back from the brink of death with a mission to save lives. That makes you the medical world's version of Iron Man, right?"

Before Stephen could refute that statement, an empty cab arrived. They muttered hurried goodbyes to each other, with a promise to keep in touch (which neither of them intended to keep), before Sandra got in.

As he was walking back to his car, Stephen wondered if he hadn't made a mistake telling Sandra about his correspondence with Tony. He was sure that piece of information would make its way into the rumor mills in the exclusive medical circles of which Sandra was a part; he wondered how that would possibly complicate his time as a Stark consultant.

The last thing he needed now, as he was struggling to regain his footing as a doctor, was complication.

Presently, however, he shook off his worries with an annoyed sigh. If "less complicated" was the goal, the first thing required to achieve it was not caring about what others thought.

 

***

 

Still...

Every day, it became clearer to him how perceptive people like Sandra Clarion could imagine that he and Tony shared a special connection.

Fact was, Tony Stark phoned or texted him almost daily.

At first it was just to tell him about a new idea Tony had for their projects, which Stephen just internally filed away for further deliberation.

Then, it was to ask how Stephen's day went, because he was, in his own words, "in a meeting and bored."

Then it escalated to not so discreetly humblebragging about how _his_ day went.

_Busted a terror cell. Saved the world again today. How's tricks?_

Stephen never missed the chance to answer with a humblebrag of his own. _Cleanly removed a brain tumor from an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court. Saved the Constitution, one hopes._

And then, there were the fancy dinners. Tony was often out of town, either on business or on a mission. When he _was_ in town, he made a point of telling Stephen about it.

And asking him out.

Tony had go-to places where paparazzi were not welcome. Those were upscale coat-and-tie places, which wreaked havoc on Stephen's budget by making him rent formal wear way too often.

Still, he appreciated the discretion - as well as the fact that Tony always picked up the check. Even if he wasn't working in ER anymore, Stephen had begun taking on a lot of pro bono cases in private practice; it kept him occupied, but poor, and they both knew it.

Stephen began to look forward to these dinners. They'd become a pleasant way to unwind, and to get plans concerning the med-tech projects in order.

But by their third dinner, their projects had stopped being the main topic of conversation. They had begun trading stories about work, or else light-hearted banter which, Stephen was aware, would come across to a spectator as mildly flirtatious.

"Ha! Knew you'd like the lobster. I win."

"Oh, sure. Hard shell outside, melts in your mouth inside. That's a likeable trait even in people."

"Oh that mouth knows what melts in people, too, does it?"

"This mouth has been to med school and knows a lot of things."

The level of familiarity they enjoyed during these dinners made Stephen feel like he and Tony Stark were either good friends taking the mickey out of each other...or a businessman and a doctor out on a date.

He wasn't sure how he felt about either possibility yet.

Tony was an attractive man...yes. But even attractive, accomplished, obscenely wealthy people had agendas. In fact, most of them were upfront about it. If they weren't, it was cause for concern.

Before he let Tony further into his life, he needed to know what the man had up his sleeve.

"There's something I've been meaning to ask," Stephen began while they were on their post-dinner drinks, and Tony was a chuckling kind of tipsy. "I don't want you to take it the wrong way."

Instead of recoiling, or brushing him off, Tony leaned forward, rested his elbow on the table and his chin in one hand. "Wow. Sounds ominous. Go ahead?"

"Why do we do this?"

Tony blinked, feigning innocence. "Why? And do what?"

"You know what I mean. We can discuss work at any other time of day. Dinner has...significance. You must've read the gossip columns."

"They pop up on my feed from time to time," Tony acknowledged. He read _everything_. So did Stephen - but owning a company that had tendrils in world affairs (not to mention, being an anti-terror vigilante officially-unofficially allowed to independently operate by the US government) meant Tony's daily news feed cast a wider net.

If the gossip columns had reached Stephen's feed, that meant they had certainly made it to Tony's.

 _MYSTERY DATE,_ Stephen recalled one of the lurid headlines screaming. _Who's Tony Stark seeing these days? While we don't have pictures or a name yet, word on the grapevine is it's a certain high-profile doctor known for his, shall we say, magic hands..._

"But it's just talk," Tony argued. "People talk, Stephen. Are you trying to tell me it bothers you?"

"'Bothered' isn't the right word. Try curious."

"About what?"

"Is there something you need from me besides the work I already do for you?"

This was direct enough. Tony leaned back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest, some of the buzz from the after-dinner drinks apparently dissipated.

"What is it you think I need from you, doc?" He said "doc" when he wanted to pull back from Stephen a bit. It was still friendly distance, but when he switched abruptly from "Stephen" to "doc," the distance was more pronounced.

"Nothing as inelegant as the columns are making it sound," Stephen assured him. "But I admit to entertaining one possibility, in particular. I'm just going to lay it out now. You'll need someone very familiar with neurophysiology for delicate surgical procedures..." He gestured with a nod to Tony's arc reactor. "...if you wanted to remove a large implant from your body, say."

Tony held his gaze. Stephen was making a gamble, he was aware. It might, at best, mean an end to all pleasant dinners, and at worst, lead to his termination from all Stark projects.

But it was a gamble worth taking. He had to know.

"You're saying," Tony said slowly, "I'm trying to get close to you because I want you to be my doctor."

Stephen cast a brief deferential glance down at the tabletop. "I don't want to offend you..."

"Do you think I'm offended?"

He shook his head. "I can't read minds, Tony. Sometimes I wish I could."

Tony was silent for a bit, looking at him. Stephen let him be silent.

Presently, Tony heaved a huge sigh.

"I'm not offended, Stephen. I'm used to it. This _is_ a transactional world we're living in, after all. Everybody wants something from someone."

He sounded almost cold. He touched the spot where the arc reactor shone brightly through the fabric.

"But if you're saying I want your help to remove this...I'll have to stop you. Right there. Because, who says I want it taken out in the first place? The one thing that turned my life around? Who the hell says I want anything in my life right now _removed_?"

And now, he was almost hostile. Stephen stayed quiet. He felt he owed Tony that much.

"Maybe I want something _added_. Maybe I think that having new people in my life who can keep up with me and whom I can actually hold decent, funny, human conversations with is actually, I don't know, a _good thing_. And maybe I _do_ want something from you, but maybe that's all I want. How's that?"

He'd upset Tony, but Stephen noted with some fascination how Tony managed to stay gracious about it. He appreciated it; Tony was one of the very few people he actually related to on a personal level. This told him that, even if Tony wanted a clean break from him after this, it was going to be an amiable one.

"I don't care if people just hang out with me because they want my money, doc. But if all you think people want out of you is your ability to use a scalpel, well..." He looked Stephen up and down. "I want you to reevaluate the people you hang out with. You're worth more than that."

"So are you."

That just slid right out of Stephen. He hadn't meant to interrupt, but Tony had just said something that was difficult to hear, and he wasn't going to let it go unchallenged.

"Tony." Stephen leaned forward, clasped hands on the table. "If you think I agree to meet up with you outside of work because I want your money, _I'm_ offended. Money isn't what drives me, not anymore."

"So why _do_ you agree to it?" Tony challenged. "What drives the great Doctor Strange to do this crazy thing called spending time with me?"

The answer was easy. Stephen took no time thinking about it:

"The weird fact that we can make corny lobster jokes and laugh loudly and get funny looks in fancy restaurants...and not give a shit."

This elicited a laugh from Tony.

It was a welcome laugh, which unknotted something in Stephen's chest.

"You're a piece of work, Strange," he commented. "Don't think this gets you out of having dinner with me."

"Consider me warned," Stephen said with a relieved smile.

***

It didn't get him out of corresponding daily with Tony Stark, either. Soon after that potentially awkward dinner, they somehow graduated to _Good morning, sunshine. Time to get your lazy ass out of bed_ texts from Tony Stark. At 3 AM.

Though it wasn't as if Stephen had wanted that to stop.

Rude wakeup texts from Tony in the morning, gentle reminders to get some restful sleep from Stephen at night: they'd fallen into routine. Those texts placed a neat little frame around messages about random things, or else their med-tech projects (which, over time, had been whittled down to just two, simply because they were both too busy to handle more: the Strange Device, and BARF).

They still had dinner, though over many months, those had become much less frequent. Tony was getting busier with SHIELD matters, and Stephen was interacting more with local and foreign specialists, trying to save more patients' lives.

Then one day Stephen got a text:

_Would sure be nice to see your face again soon._

Stephen almost felt the longing in those words, and it threw him off-balance for a bit.

What could he answer, then, except _Don't worry, it hasn't gotten any less pretty since the last time._

The reply was quick and short: a laughing emoji.

Fast followed by _Doesn't look like it's any less arrogant, either. Good._

Stephen smiled.

_I miss you too, Tony. You know where to find me._


	4. The Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Project Insight happens. Stephen Strange is named as one of the targets. Panic makes someone take drastic measures.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FORGOT ABOUT CA:TWS, HOW EMBARRASSING.
> 
> I said in my notes in the last chapter that the last scene (with Peter) takes place in 2015. I just realized I skipped ahead in my own plot. So I'm removing the Peter scene from the earlier chapter, and putting it into the NEXT chapter, which deals with 2015. THIS one deals with 2014 only.
> 
> For now, I’m keeping my notes for the previous chapter just to remind myself how badly I effed up my own timeline.
> 
> The events in this chapter take place around Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014). WARNING: not explicit, but not entirely worksafe, either.

Three military helicarriers took to the skies over the Triskelion. Shortly afterwards, a massive leak of confidential S.H.I.E.L.D. documents made its way into the Internet.  
  
One of the most alarming things about the leak was something called Project Insight. It was an extremely precise way of eliminating potential threats to the US government's global superiority.  
  
(The leak also exposed that unsavory elements had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D. and conflated "the US government" with "Hydra." That was, in truth, _the_ most alarming thing about it. There would be senate sub-committee hearings about this for months to come, and a touch of paranoia would remain in more vulnerable minds and hearts.)  
  
There was a list of 20 million "high-value targets" in Insight's files. Unsurprisingly, a handful of them were high-profile Enhanced personalities - Bruce Banner. Tony Stark.  
  
But surprisingly, the overwhelming majority were regular people, with regular occupations. A student. A housewife in Oklahoma. A security guard working for a small bank in Cuba.  
  
And Dr. Stephen Strange in New York.  
  
Stephen didn't even know about it until a colleague messaged him. He wasn't on social media and had no time for the "Are YOU an Insight target" quizzes that were fast making the rounds. He wasn't inclined to look through all 20 million names on the actual leaked documents for familiar ones, either.  
  
_You're on the list,_ the text said.  
  
_What list?_ Stephen asked.  
  
_Page 5342._ And so he knew.  
  
A number of other people, including Christine, texted him about it, but he ignored them. He dismissed their messages swiftly and irritably, preferring to use his limited time between consultations to stay updated on the events in DC.  
  
Then he got a call.  
  
It was Tony.  
  
_"Stephen."_ He sounded out of breath. _"Where are you? Are you safe?"_  
  
"I'm in my clinic, " Stephen answered. "Tony, what -"  
  
_"Don't - don't go anywhere."_  
  
The call was dropped.  
  
Very soon afterwards, onlookers reported hearing an explosion in the sky, as Iron Man launched himself from Stark Tower and hit supersonic speed.  
  
Then reporters on the ground in DC with zoom lenses and keen eyes noted that a fight had broken out aboard one of the helicarriers - between Iron Man and two other individuals, who couldn't fly and so mostly stayed out of sight.  
  
The spectacle drew cameras to it. People barely saw the moment when the helicarriers turned their guns on each other and started blasting each other out of existence.  
  
Then, suddenly, metal debris was falling all over the greater metropolitan area. The Triskelion suffered the worst of the rain of hellfire. Everyone scrambled to get to safer ground.  
  
As soon as the fireworks started, Iron Man abandoned whoever he'd been fighting on that carrier. He used his blasters to aid the ground-to-air strikes that broke up the larger pieces of falling debris, if not pulverized them altogether.  
  
Thanks to Iron Man, damage to civilian property, though inevitable, was minimized. People didn't hesitate to thank him for blowing up the helicarriers, too.  
  
It came out later on the news that Iron Man wasn't even around for most of the fight. The heroes credited for exposing Hydra activities in S.H.I.E.L.D., and for dismantling Project Insight, were Captain America, Black Widow and a new player who called himself Falcon.  
  
So, after praising him for saving the world again, a skeptical section of the media started speculating as to why Iron Man was late to the party.  
  
Stephen sighed as he shut off the news feed on his phone. People just couldn't leave heroes well enough alone, could they?  
  
Good thing Stephen wasn't a hero.  
  
Tony didn't contact him for the rest of the day. Understandable. There was chaos from the top down, and he was probably needed for damage control.  
  
The radio silence from Tony didn't stop Stephen from sending his "rest up" reminder text that night, though. Tony probably needed rest more than usual.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The following evening, Tony showed up at his clinic.  
  
"Hey," was the chipper greeting. "You busy?  
  
Stephen blinked. "Um." He glanced down at the thick folder of patient files under his arm, which he'd been fully intending to take home. "I was just heading out..."  
  
"That was a rhetorical question. You're not busy. You're coming with me."  
  
There was barely any time for Stephen to put his files back in storage. Tony sideswiped Stephen's questions as they both walked to his car. As soon as they got in, Tony whipped out his proprietary Stark Tech smartphone and focused on it, ignoring Stephen's indignant protests and inquiries.  
  
The car stopped just outside an airstrip. A bewildered Stephen found himself following Tony into a private jet with "Stark Industries" emblazoned on its side.  
  
And very soon after that, he was in a plush leatherette seat that could lean _all the way back_ and having in-flight dinner with Tony.  
  
"Been a while since our last date, right? Sorry, I've had my hands full." He gestured to the meal in front of them. "Hope this makes up for it."  
  
"I'd say this is even overkill," Stephen told him. "The kidnapping was a bit much."  
  
Tony pretended to look hurt. "Kidnapping? Come on, why so dramatic. I was just tired of our usual places and wanted to shake things up a little."  
  
"This isn't just 'a little.' You won't even tell me where we're going."  
  
"I'll let you work it out. This flight is estimated to take four hours and thirty minutes. If we're never leaving US airspace, where do you think we'll end up?"  
  
Stephen frowned. As someone who'd had to fly out to other hospitals in other states for emergency procedures and high-paying patients, he was no stranger to long-distance travel. He could do the math in his head.  
  
"California?"  
  
Tony made a sound of affirmation around a mouthful of filet mignon.  
  
"What's in California, Tony?"  
  
"My house," was the nonchalant answer. "But we can talk about that later. Let's make this a proper dinner, like the ones we have on land. Tell me about your day. Mine was a whopper. Post-DC stuff, as I'm sure you know."  
  
Stephen was, frankly, fed up with asking questions that were clearly never getting answered, so he decided to go with the flow. And dinner with Tony was always a welcome break from everything else, after all.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Stephen had expected the Stark residence in Malibu to be grandiose, but he wasn't fully prepared for the level of ostentation that greeted his eyes.  
  
Late at night, the Stark mansion looked like a massive modern sculpture, with tasteful lighting accentuating its futuristic angles and curves. The interior reflected that sleek vibe, with its suede walls, minimalist furniture, ceiling-to-floor windows and wide spaces.  
  
His first coherent thought was _Whoa._ The next was _How can anyone_ sleep _in a place like this?_  
  
It was too roomy. Too open. Too isolated. It lacked warmth - something he had grown to appreciate in his cozy one-bedroom in Queens.  
  
"You're not tired yet, are you?" Tony asked him. "If you are, I should show you to your room and we can talk tomorrow."  
  
" _My_ room?"  
  
"There are two master suites," Tony continued. "I just kind of move between one and the other when I feel like it. Take your pick. I'll stick to the one you don't choose."  
  
"I'm not tired," Stephen answered testily. "I'd like to know what I'm doing here."  
  
He had run out of patience. And finally, that became obvious to Tony. He shot Stephen an apologetic look.  
  
"All right," Tony said. "Come with me."  
  
  
***  
  
  
He was led to the basement levels, where Tony kept his toys. The first level was the design floor. The two lower ones were called "the garage" and were off limits.  
  
Stephen paid close attention while Tony was talking. He seemed nervous, wired. Like he was gearing up to tell Stephen something he _definitely_ wouldn't like.  
  
From introducing the functions of the design panels, he moved to teaching Stephen how to activate the holographic design tools. As fascinating as it was, Stephen had to speak up.  
  
"Tony...either you tell me what's really going on, or I walk out of here."  
  
Tony fell still.  
  
After a long pause, he faced Stephen with renewed enthusiasm.  
  
"You'll be moving your research here, temporarily," he declared. "I've made backups of all your files from the Midtown lab and configured some of the machines here to give you biometric access. Needless to say, you'll be moving residence, as well. My aide Happy Hogan can help you make the necessary arrangements. You can fly back to New York if any of your patients there will need emergency surgery. All flights courtesy of Stark Industries, of course, just send us the bill."  
  
"Are you insane?" Stephen hoped it wasn't obvious, but he was fighting hard to keep calm.  
  
"It's just temporary!" Tony argued.  
  
"No." Stephen kept his voice level. "You know I can't do that."  
  
"I don't see that you have a choice." Tony folded his arms across his chest. "I'm your investor. I'm pulling rank."  
  
"Pull rank all you want. My contract states that I don't have to do anything I don't want to do. You can't just uproot me on a whim."  
  
"What if it's for your own safety?"  
  
Stephen scowled.  
  
"What are you talking about?"  
  
As upset as Stephen was getting over this conversation, he could see Tony was even more stressed out than he was. Tony scratched his head in annoyance and paced the design room, as he pieced together his response.  
  
Eventually he settled for the simplest possible words: "You were on Project Insight's target list."  
  
"So what?"  
  
" 'So what?' " Tony echoed, incredulous. "Don't tell me that didn't scare you, even a little."  
  
"Sure, a little," Stephen admitted. "But the situation was resolved within a few hours after S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Hydra connection was made public. No more Triskelion. No more Project Insight. And right now, it seems there's barely even a S.H.I.E.L.D. So I don't see why I should _stay_ scared."  
  
Tony looked at him wide-eyed, as if he couldn't believe Stephen could be so dim.  
  
"Hydra scattered to the winds after S.H.I.E.L.D. crumbled," he replied, in a lower, grimmer tone. " _They're still out there._ And you can bet that the ones who could, ran off with resources they got from the government, including that damn list."  
  
"But targeting people one by one for assassination, without the use of WMDs like the helicarriers? Even people who aren't active threats? That hardly seems like Hydra M.O."  
  
Tony took a deep breath, another long pause.  
  
"I wasn't going to tell you this," he began again, arms still folded across his chest protectively. "But in one of the carriers, there was a Hydra agent called the Winter Soldier. Cap was going to destroy the carriers, but the guy'd shot him in the stomach and was still coming after him. So I covered Cap's ass and attacked the guy. Cap did his thing and blew up the carriers, then he said, 'Go help civilians, Tony, I got this.' So I did, and he went back to fighting the guy hand to hand.  
  
"Long story short, the guy landed Cap in the hospital. Cap's new buddy Falcon said...well, he said Cap knew the guy. He was in the leaked S.H.I.E.L.D. files as a mostly off-the-books asset. They said the Winter Soldier was used for a variety of vague spy missions, including single-target assassinations. And he...didn't die when his ship exploded. He got away."  
  
When Stephen was done processing this new information, he demanded, "You weren't going to tell me that _why_?"  
  
"I didn't want to freak you out with specifics. I thought I could just show you how concerned I was, and you'd take that in stride and do what I say."  
  
Stephen narrowed his eyes at him. "Following instructions isn't my forte. You knew that from the beginning."  
  
Tony looked away from him. "I know, but seriously - if everyone just _listened to me_ , the world would be a _much_ safer place."  
  
It felt like Tony was withdrawing into himself the longer their argument drew on. Stephen decided to do something about that.  
  
He laid a hand on Tony's arm. Tony stiffened for a second, but let out a breath, some of his tension easing out that way.  
  
"Tony," Stephen began in a soft, reassuring tone, "he won't come after me. I'm not a threat. I'm just a doctor. And I can take care of myself." He withdrew his hand from Tony's arm, and Tony's entire body shifted slightly, as if adjusting to its absence.  
  
Stephen continued, "In Kathmandu, I was trained in...certain disciplines. Including martial arts. My teacher considered elevating the body to be essential to elevating the mind. And my training worked out: I got my hands back. I also learned how to kick ass."  
  
"Yeah, but you didn't _see_ this guy, Stephen." Tony's tone this time was pleading. "I had a hard time with him - and I had guns and could fly. All he had was his metal arm. He might have been on par with Cap, strength-wise - and do you seriously think your lameass kung fu could win you a fight with Captain America?"  
  
"You sound ignorant, don't call it kung fu." Stephen reprimanded. "And maybe not, but I can at least give him a hard time."  
  
Tony shut his eyes and clasped his hands in front of him as if in prayer.  
  
"You're missing. The point." He sounded aggravated again. "You can't ever be in a position where you'll have to engage the Winter Soldier. I can't risk even the slightest chance that he'll come after you. I can't -"  
  
He caught himself, clammed up fast.  
  
Stephen gently prodded, "Can't what?"  
  
Tony didn't answer.  
  
"Tony."  
  
"You're really gonna make me say it." He didn't sound angry. He sounded defeated.  
  
Stephen almost felt sorry for him. But this was a time for answers, and he couldn't let up; the best he could do was to sound non-aggressive.  
  
"If you want me to stay, you have to."  
  
It wasn't an idle threat, either. Tony must have known that. He must have imagined Stephen storming out of the mansion in the dead of night and hitching a ride to get to some godforsaken motel...but Stephen actually had something more efficient in mind. He always carried around his sling ring. If worse came to worse, he could go anywhere.  
  
Either way, Tony wasn't ready for him to leave.  
  
"I can't let anything happen to you," he admitted, not looking Stephen in the eye. "Maybe I can't protect you if aliens come dropping out of the sky again - not right now anyway. But _this_ , this human problem, this is doable. All I have to do is keep you away from danger."  
  
"And you think by keeping me close, you're keeping me safe?" Stephen allowed himself a small, sad smile. "Have you _seen_ danger and how much it loves you?"  
  
"Yeah, okay, the safest thing to do is actually to cut off all ties with me. But the next best thing" - Tony looked at him again - "is to never leave my side."  
  
There was no room for argument in his eyes. It was one or the other.  
  
But to Stephen, leaving Tony was never an option.  
  
He stepped closer to Tony. Tony let him approach. He reached out and laid his palm gently against Tony's cheek.  
  
Stephen was well-trained in recognizing the presence of pain. And with this one gesture, it seemed he released the pain that Tony had been keeping to himself. Helped it reach his face, finally.  
  
Tony closed his eyes and leaned into his touch.  
  
"I wish you knew," he whispered, "how I felt when I saw your name on that list. I wish you knew."  
  
"Hush."  
  
He touched his lips to Tony's, and found no resistance. In fact, Tony's lips sought his out hungrily - which was good, because it was important that the patient was receptive to treatment.  
  
The priority was to take the pain away.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Stephen bet neither of them expected that their first time was going to be on the floor of the design room of Tony Stark's personal workshop. But neither of them could wait.  
  
Besides, there were two master suites to choose from, for the next rounds.  
  
It was intense, breathless, electric - all things that Stephen had not anticipated. He wasn't sure why, but he hadn't expected that their easy rapport would translate well into sex. Perhaps it was because they were such different people. But when all bets were off, it was as if they knew each other's bodies well.  
  
One of the books in the Kamar-Taj library explored the concept of soulmates - people shaped from the same astral mold, who were drawn together and instantly connected as soon as they touched. Sometimes, those people were the same in many ways - and sometimes they were completely different.  
  
Stephen always thought it was a load of irrational, inconsistent dreck and was glad he didn't find other titles that spewed the same. But tonight, he found himself thinking back to that book. And wondering if he shouldn't have dismissed it so easily.  
  
He woke slowly close to dawn, to the feeling of an arm draped over his chest. And drifted further out of sleep to realize that because of this he was warm, perhaps the warmest he had ever been in his life. In a house that he had earlier written off as isolated and cold.  
  
He lay awake, listening to Tony's relaxed, steady breathing. Memorizing the feeling of Tony's bare skin against his.  
  
And the feeling of being absolutely safe. The feeling that everything that had led up to now was worth it.  
  
_"There were deeper secrets to learn then,"_ a man named Jonathan Pangborn had told him, _"but I did not have the strength to receive them. I chose to settle for my miracle, and I came back home."_  
  
This was it. This was the miracle Stephen had come home for. Not the recovery of his hands. Not the return to a life of prestige, and all the evils that came with it.  
  
It was this. This moment. This man.  
  
  
***  
  
  
When he woke for a second time, he was alone. It was seven o’clock. And the house felt cold again.  
  
There were new clothes laid out for him at the foot of the bed. They were his size exactly. Once more, he decided against overthinking how Tony could have known the size of his clothing. Tony had resources to know more things about other people, than perhaps he should.

In fact, Stephen wouldn’t be surprised if Tony had already bought a bunch of clothes in his size, in anticipation of him moving into the mansion, as requested. He dearly hoped this wasn’t the case, however.  
  
He took a shower in the en suite bathroom. As he was putting on the new clothes, he noted that his phone, old clothes, and other personal items had been neatly put together in a corner.  
  
That was how he knew someone else was or had been in the house: Tony just didn't strike him as someone who bothered to fold apparel - his own or other people's. He lacked the patience for such mundane things.

Tony must have overseen it, though. At the very top of the pile of personal items was Stephen's sling ring. There was a hastily scrawled note pinned underneath it, which impertinently said _"What even IS this??"_

He heard Tony’s voice in his head, saying those words. Right after that, he remembered Tony’s brown eyes shining bright with arousal. Tony’s moans coming in faster and louder as he approached climax.

Stephen forcibly brushed the more provocative memories aside, smiled, tucked the note into his pocket along with the ring, and made a mental note to come up with some bullshit story about it being a sentimental souvenir from Kathmandu.  
  
He stepped out of the room, and was greeted by a beautiful woman in sharp business wear. Her ginger hair was done up in a youthful ponytail.  
  
"Dr. Strange." The woman had a polished, professional smile. "My name is Pepper Potts. Mr. Stark has instructed me to attend to your requests today. Anything you need."  
  
The famous Ms. Potts. Tony mentioned her often. He once told Stephen, with naked admiration, that Stark Industries would grind to a halt without her.

She did indeed look competent. And no-nonsense. Stephen marveled at how expertly she balanced forthrightness and a gentle demeanor.

What was more, her face reflected absolutely no judgment. If she considered Stephen a nuisance, or a potential PR nightmare for Stark Industries, she didn’t show it. From where Stephen stood, all she was, was kind.

“Oh...Mr. Stark apologizes, but he has urgent matters to attend to in DC and won’t be able to join you for breakfast. Which, by the way, is waiting for you in the dining room.” She turned to leave. “If you’ll follow me?”

“Ms. Potts.”

She stopped, turned to look at Stephen again.

“Does Tony - Mr. Stark - does he expect me not to leave?”

In short: was he a prisoner? Was he going to have to use his wits to escape, and give Tony hell for it later?

He gambled that he would get an honest answer from someone whom Tony trusted with his life and more.

Ms. Potts’ smile lacked all malice.

“No, Doctor,” she replied. “A private jet is ready and waiting to take you back to New York, at your earliest convenience.”  
  
Stephen let out a relieved sigh. He didn’t want to have to portal out of there. That would have been...messy.

“Thank you.” His gratitude was genuine.

“However, Mr. Stark wanted me to tell you that he wishes you would stay. He said you’d know why.”

Stephen recalled Tony in the design room, the torment on his face. _I wish you knew._

“Please let Mr. Stark know that I appreciate the invitation,” he said to her, “but I have patients waiting to see me this afternoon. The sooner I’m back in New York, the better.”

She nodded. “Very good. But breakfast first, I hope?”


	5. The Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can't use any other spells while you're drawing power from the Dark Dimension. Stephen stops drawing from the Dark Dimension for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2015\. A lot of things happen in this year. This is the year _Avengers: Age of Ultron_ takes place, and also the year I presume Peter gets his powers.
> 
> I wanted this part to be longer, but in the end I decided that 3k+ characters is the best I can manage without...postponing an update for another week.
> 
> This part drones on a bit because it sets the scene for Stephen relearning how to use his magic. The next part is sliiiiightly more action-packed.
> 
> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1kjC0QouX0) was the piece I imagined Stephen playing to wake Tony up. Minus the singing in the middle :P

As there was absolutely no way Stephen was moving all the way out to the west coast, Tony had to be the one to adjust. This meant carving out a space where, in his words, he could “keep an eye on” Stephen until he was sure that the danger really had passed.

There was no danger in the first place...but Stephen felt Tony knew this, and simply wanted an excuse to spend more time with him.

Tony got himself a fully serviced apartment in one of the many more discreet Stark-owned buildings in New York. It was, technically, Tony’s place. Stephen was just welcome to stay whenever he wanted.

Which was pretty much whenever Tony was in town.

It felt like there were no secrets between them - which was, of course, untrue. That was just how it felt, due to the sheer amount of talking that went on. Tony didn’t speak about confidential matters, though he did speak about the Avengers rather a lot. Especially Steve Rogers - who was, in fairness, quite fascinating.

And Stephen never mentioned magic.

It was as close to happiness as Stephen had gotten in a long, long time.

But something was still missing.

They’d already talked about their screwed-up past. The traumas they’d lived through: the deaths of their family members. Tony’s kidnapping. Stephen’s accident.

At times Stephen asked himself if opening up about his time in Kamar-Taj would fill in the missing part...

But then common sense hit him upside the head hard. _Yeah,_ he said, _go ahead and tell him you can do magic but_ won’t.

_And while you’re at it, tell him you’re breaking the laws of nature. Constantly. Without regard for the risks. Just because you missed the accolades and praise you used to get._

_That ought to make him like you more._

Tony got a piano for his apartment. It was nothing fancy: an upright that fit comfortably in the living room. This was, of course, a day after Stephen mentioned that he used to have a grand piano in his old apartment in Midtown - one of the very first things he’d bought after moving in.

Stephen had not expected to fall in love with that piano, but he did. He looked forward to playing it whenever he was over.

“Good morning, genius.”

Tony laid his hands on Stephen’s shoulders, bent down and planted a kiss on the side of his neck. Stephen smiled.

Stephen imagined there were other couples in the world who called each other “genius” and “smart guy” as terms of endearment, instead of as snarky insults. But he and Tony had only been together a couple of months, and he _really_ didn’t care about other couples.

“You playing this thing,” Tony murmured into his ear, “has got to be my second favorite way to wake up.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “Is it? What’s the first, then?”

“Your mouth.” The smirk was right there in the words. Stephen didn’t need to turn. “On my - ”

“Really, Tony? So early?”

Tony pulled himself upright, chuckling. “What? Such a dirty mind, doc. I mean the smell of coffee.” He took a deep and noisy breath. “And I have both going for me this morning. Lucky me!”

“Lucky you.” Stephen had not stopped playing. “Sleep in any longer and you’re going to miss your flight. Had to do both, to be sure.”

“Hm. Wow, you’re right, look at the time. Well, I’m showering before coffee. Join me?”

“Not if you want to make that flight, Tony.”

“Yeah, yeah...”

Tony’s anxiety from the night before was creeping back in. For some reason, this trip to Sokovia was bothering him. He wouldn’t tell Stephen why. He only said it was probably going to be dangerous.

Although all of Tony’s trips for S.H.I.E.L.D. were dangerous.

There was no time for breakfast after Tony’s shower. He needed to perform a final check on the suitcase he was bringing (generally, Tony brought little with him on trips; he just bought new clothes wherever he landed). As he was doing so, he took the mug of black coffee handed to him by Stephen, and downed it in one gulp.

He gave a hearty whoop and blinked rapidly as the caffeine rush kicked in. And as the chemicals settled in his brain, he addressed Stephen.

“Listen...there’s something I want to tell you.”

Stephen raised an eyebrow. “I’m not housesitting for you while you’re gone.”

“I told you, I got people to do that.” He faced Stephen, looking him straight in the eye. "I'm serious, Stephen. This is important. You know the work. You know there’s always a chance I won’t come back. I just didn't want to go off to this one without letting you know how I feel."

There was a seriousness to Tony that Stephen didn’t often see. It alarmed him slightly.

"And that is...?"

Tony reached for his hands, his fingers twining restlessly with Stephen’s.

"You keep me calm. And God knows you turn me on. I don’t get as many bad dreams as I used to since we started sleeping together, and that alone I think is a goddamn miracle.” He smiled. “These days, things can get overwhelming. So I just want you to know, I appreciate feeling like you got my back. I like having you around."

Stephen had to smile again.

“I always have your back, Tony. And I like having you around, too. Just in case that wasn’t clear.”

It seemed this was exactly what Tony needed to hear. Stephen could feel his grip on Stephen’s hands loosening, his entire body relaxing somewhat.

"Anyway," Tony said as he released Stephen, "I hope I didn’t just creep you out. Or will I find all your stuff in boxes in eight days’ time?"

“All I have here is a toothbrush, a towel and a change of clothes. I doubt you’ll notice if they’ve been packed away.”

Tony snorted. “Good job revealing your master plan, Sherlock. If the toothbrush, towel and change of clothes aren’t here when I get back, I’m hunting you down.”

After this, Tony turned and resumed sifting through the contents of his suitcase.

As he did, Stephen, standing beside him, came to a decision.

There was no way on earth he wasn’t doing this.

***

  
This was how it worked:  
  
One performed a specific ritual from the Book of Cagliostro every so often, and in so doing, channeled energy from the Dark Dimension into one’s own body, for a period of time.

There would be a constant light tingling sensation in the parts of one’s body where the dark energy would reside. It was largely unobtrusive; one could get used to it. One could forget it was even there.

In most cases, the exhilaration of restoring one’s limbs to perfect shape and health was enough to offset any discomfort.

The ritual was deceptively simple and surprisingly quick. Any idiot could do it, as long as that idiot had basic magical knowledge and prior exposure to dark energy.

And that, Stephen supposed, was why it wasn’t taught to every idiot who came asking to learn.

Jonathan Pangborn had also spent 2 years in Kamar-Taj, before the Ancient One taught him the spell. Stephen was never taught it at all, not by choice. One night, a number of forbidden spells from the Book of Cagliostro had mysteriously entered his dreams and burned themselves into his brain. Stephen simply sought to do the best he could with the invasion.

The Ancient One had made a similar decision. Instead of wiping the spells from Stephen’s memories, she opted to guide him on how to use them, instead.

He doubted Pangborn had been taught all of the spells that were in his brain now. Some of them were vastly powerful and destructive - certainly not for 2-year novices. From what Stephen could gather, Pangborn had just been taught the one spell: how to turn his own body into a conduit for dark energies.

Still, it was not a spell that could be taken lightly. For one thing, it disliked all other spells.

This meant that once the ritual was in effect, no other spiritual activity was possible.

No astral projection. No telekinesis. No portaling. Even the most fundamental novice spells were blocked.

That is, until the ritual was cancelled - by willing the dark energy in one’s body, back to its source.

For another, as the Ancient One had said: anyone who could draw even a little power from the Dark Dimension, had the ability to draw more.

It was possible to draw too much. At the risk of losing one’s mind.

Did one ever desire to turn one’s body into a vehicle for chaos, a puppet for dark forces? All one had to do was draw vast amounts of power and let it take over one’s entire being.

Deceptively simple. Surprisingly quick.

And so Stephen had to be careful. Every time he had to do the ritual, he took enough. Just enough.

Until the magic ran out, and he had to do the ritual again. Over time, Stephen had needed to do the ritual less and less often.

It had been over a year since he last did any kind of magic that was not the ritual.

He was about to perform his first spell since leaving Kamar-Taj.

And he hoped to God he’d get it right.

***

The first thing he did was to end the ritual, to send the dark energy within him flowing out.

His hands immediately started to shake.

His unsteady fingers fluttered behind Tony’s head, just barely touching the tips of his hair.

Hairline tendrils of light snaked out from his fingers, formed a small golden spider in the air.

Once fully formed, the spider leapt onto Tony’s nape, and sank into his skin.

Then the light disappeared.

Thus Stephen planted a tracker: a magical way of monitoring Tony’s emotions as if they were his own.

Tony turned to face him again.

Stephen stuck his hands into his pockets quickly.

“All right, everything in order,” Tony declared with a sigh. “God, I miss your coffee already. And I know you love it too, so you better not finish it all off while I’m gone, mister.”

Stephen’s eyes narrowed at him. “Why do I even like you.”

Tony smirked again. “Not only do you like me - you can’t keep your hands off me. Which you may think sucks for you, but I’m just rolling in the benefits.”

Stephen hesitated. _Funny you should mention hands..._

“Okay. You know what, smart guy? I _can so_ keep my hands off you. Just to prove it, I’m keeping them behind my back until you’re out of sight.”

He took his hands out of his pockets and crossed them behind his back to demonstrate.

Tony smirked. “Kinky.” He stepped toward Stephen again, placed his hands on Stephen’s hips. “Gives me a few ideas for when I get back.”

He leaned in for a kiss, and Stephen obliged, his hands behind his back trembling harder as he tensed up slightly.

Tony said one last reluctant goodbye, then left without noticing the shaking.

So much had happened, and he never noticed.

***

There was enough to keep him occupied over the next few days. There were complex post-operative complications with an elderly patient, a new stumper referred to him by Nic West, a toddler with a tumor in an extremely difficult location, among others.

(The Strange Device prototype would help vastly with most of these cases. But until Tony got back from Sokovia, development was stalled.)

Like Stephen, Tony was busy. But what bothered him was not Tony not answering his texts as quickly as he used to...

It was him still not feeling what Tony felt, close to a week after he planted the tracker.

Did the spell not work?

Did the tracker fizzle out, like spells used to do when he was still starting off?

A part of Stephen told him he didn’t _need_ to do magic anymore, not in the life he’d chosen. So it was pointless to obsess over whether or not the magical spider he’d planted inside the base of Tony’s skull was working.

But it troubled him nonetheless, because of the implications.

Scrying and mind-reading were skills that were beyond Stephen, but spells to read other people’s emotions and dreams were available to novices.

Did he seriously just fuck up a _novice spell?_

Or did exposure to dark magic reduce the effectiveness of regular spells?

One night, as he puzzled over these things, he came back to his apartment late to find Peter Parker sitting up against his door.

Stephen wondered how long he'd been there. There was an anxious look on the boy’s face as he stood to acknowledge Stephen’s approach.

"Hey, doc...”

"Peter. Were you waiting for me?"

"Um, yeah." Peter promptly began avoiding looking him in the eye. Unsure of what to do with his hands, the boy started rubbing his own wrists, for some reason. "I was kind of just wondering...you're a doctor. Does that mean you're good with, uh, science and...stuff?"

"Science and stuff? Fairly good, I'd like to think.” Stephen frowned. “Why do you ask?"

The frown seemed to give Peter pause. He stammered as he replied, "I-I was wondering if you could help me out with, um, chemistry."

Peter didn't even sound sure about that; it could have been any other subject.

"See, I'm struggling with it some in school, and May says I should ask around for someone who can help. The first person who came to mind was you." He seemed to suddenly hear himself, and he put up both his hands in a gesture of surrender. "But it doesn't have to be you! I know you're busy and all, being this big-shot doctor, so maybe, you know, you can point me to someone else who could..."

"Peter," Stephen calmly interrupted, "it's all right. If it’s just an hour or two a night, maybe we can make it work. Twice a week, is that all right?"

That ended up being easier than Peter might have expected. It seemed to have caught the boy by surprise.

"Twice a week is...fine! Thanks, doc!" Remembering something important, he ventured "Um...how much are you charging? It's by the hour, right? I've never really had a tutor before, so..."

Stephen shook his head. "May has you send over food when she's made too much. I'll consider this _my_ payment, for her kindness and yours."

“I really appreciate it, doc. Really. So, uh...is now good?”

Stephen blinked.

“Erm...no, not tonight, Peter. It's late and I need to rest. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” Peter was already backing away, into the direction of his own front door. “I understand, I’m bothering you, you’re a really busy guy, and I just - really, really appreciate it, doc." He turned to leave. "I-I’ll see you tomorrow night, then, okay?”

Stephen raised his hand for a wave. “Get a good night’s rest, Peter.”

As he watched the boy run off, Stephen wondered what on earth the boy had to be so anxious about. He radiated tension.

Was his problem really about schoolwork?

He wondered why Peter would think of him. Sure, they'd been interacting quite a bit over the past year, but surely there was someone more accessible to Peter who could serve as his tutor - a classmate, perhaps? A more knowledgeable upperclassman in need of extra cash?

Most worryingly, Peter had always struck him as a smart boy - a mathlete, a fixture in academic competitions, and handy with computers. May and some of the other neighbors were even overtly proud of him for it.

For him to suddenly say he was bad at science was...certainly unexpected.

But maybe it was nothing.

Stephen resolved not to think any more about it. He had more urgent concerns. And magic-related concerns just _had_ to throw themselves into the pot.

He set aside his groceries, fired off a final “rest up” text that he was sure Tony wouldn’t answer, then thought about the best approach to his problems.

He could try meditating. He hadn’t meditated in a while.

***

Stephen entered a dream that night.

One of the perks of being a sorcerer (of sorts) was being able to recognize dreams when he had them. It would not feel real immediately.

Another was being able to recognize that the dream he was in, was not his own.

He found himself in a desolate place. Not Earth - it seemed like a barren rock, an asteroid, perhaps. There was no atmosphere. The dark of space surrounded him and he could almost feel its cold.

The first thing he noticed was a roaring noise overhead. He looked up.

An army of worm-like creatures of titanic size dominated the skies. Far underneath them, Stephen felt microscopic.

Stephen wasn't in New York when the alien invasion occurred - the one that introduced the Avengers to the world. But he'd seen the videos. He'd heard the stories from survivors. He knew what those creatures were.

He suddenly knew whose dream this was.

"Tony."

He ran through the rubble, calling out the name.

_"Tony!"_

He must be somewhere nearby. That was how dream trackers worked - you always ended up somewhere in the immediate proximity of the dreamer.

And he'd apparently cast a _dream tracker._

Not an emotion tracker.

_Brilliant, Strange. True master of the mystic arts material._

Even as Stephen berated himself, he understood where he went wrong: the procedure was the same - to cast a single-use, single-purpose golden spider that would sink into the skin and magically embed itself into the host.

It was the _location_ he'd gotten wrong. The spider should have crawled down to the left ventricle and stayed there. It shouldn't have crawled all the way up to the cortex. The location should have signaled its purpose.

He blamed a deeply ingrained med school mindset that said emotions were not in the heart, but in the chemicals in the brain.

Being out of practice wreaked havoc in one's lesson recall...but he wasn't in a position to beat himself up too much for it.

He had to find Tony.

This was clearly a nightmare. And that became most apparent when he reached a certain hill -

***

And Tony was there.

At the base of the hill where the bodies of fallen Avengers lay.

Tony was on his knees beside a busted-up Steve Rogers, a stunned look on his face.

Rogers was gripping his arm. He was saying something to Tony. Stephen was too far away to hear.

"TONY!"

Tony turned toward him, wide-eyed, broke free from Rogers' grip to get on his feet.

"...Stephen?" That one word brought out all of his confusion, all of his fear.

Stephen had never seen Tony so afraid.

The look in his eyes said _No. No get away they'll get you too_

"Tony." He opened his arms as he approached. "It's all right."

"No, don't -"

Stephen muffled that objection in a tight embrace.

Tony collapsed against him. Stephen had no other word for it. Tony was sweating and shaking - an odd state for a dreamer, who was supposed to be disconnected from his body.

But Stephen could hardly argue that now, when there was hardly any strength in Tony's legs.

"I'm here," Stephen said over and over, stroking his hair. "I'm here now, Tony. I've got you."

"I could've saved them," Tony said against his shoulder.

"It's not your fault," Stephen assured him immediately. "None of this is real."

"I could've saved them." It came as a sob now.

Something was going on here. Tony couldn't hear him, or couldn't listen.

This didn't feel like a simple dream. It was a dream, but it also felt like something induced. Something Tony was trapped in.

Magic?

In that case, they had to get out.

Now.

"That's enough," he said firmly. "This is a dream, Tony. None of this is real. Wake up."

***

_"Wake up."_

The sound of his own voice was the last thing he heard, before he opened his eyes.

It took him a second to get his bearings. He was no longer in a desolate rock in space with Tony. He was in his apartment. In bed. Alone.

Stephen looked at the clock: 2:13 AM.

It would be around 9 AM in Sokovia.

Tony would not have been asleep at 9 AM, not if he was on a mission. So he could not have been having a natural dream.

What the fuck was going on?

Stephen reached for his phone. Tried to reach Tony on speed dial. He knew Tony had his secure personal number patched into his suit, so even if Tony was on a mission he'd see Stephen's call.

There was no answer.

Stephen comforted himself with the thought that if he was awake, that certainly meant Tony was awake, too. Stephen's tracker had dissolved, severing contact, because the dream was over.

And they had both escaped that nightmare.

What mattered to him now was that, like him, Tony should have escaped intact.

But Tony wasn't picking up.

Not for the first time, he fought the excruciating urge to open a portal to where Tony was. If Tony was facing a powerful sorcerer who knew how to mess with his subconscious, he could well be in truly deep shit.

And yet - what would Stephen do, even if he ended the dark ritual currently in effect and portal over?

He couldn't even conjure a weapon, like he'd seen the masters at Kamar-Taj do.

At best, he could provide a momentary distraction for the sorcerer attacking Tony - and then he would die.

And then Tony would hate him for 1) never telling him he could portal, and 2) dying within 2 seconds of coming over.

_Yeah. Brilliant._

No...he had to content himself with the thought that Tony could hold his own. He had always done so. He was the smart guy - _Stephen's_ smart guy - and he could get himself out of this.

But his fingers found their way back to his phone's keyboard, and they had already started typing:

_It wasn't your fault._

For a long, long time, Stephen stared wordlessly at the letters on the screen.

Then, when he got his head back together, he deleted them.

Tony would return his call when things had settled down for him. And talk to Stephen about the dream if he wanted to. He and Tony talked about nearly everything. No need to complicate matters.

So Stephen shut his eyes tight, gripped his phone, drew in a deep breath.

Exhaled slowly.

He needed to calm down. It was the best thing he could do for Tony at this moment.


	6. Helpless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen stops drawing power from the Dark Dimension a second time, out of concern for a friend with something to hide. Things are said over the phone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still takes place during _Avengers: Age of Ultron._ Man, a lot of things happen during that show!

“...Stephen?”

When Stephen drifted back to attention, he found Christine’s hand on his.

Christine was seated beside him at a table in the hospital cafeteria, while Christine’s on-call neurologist, Nic West, sat across from the two of them, and was staring at him expectantly.

“Were you even listening, Stephen?” Nic demanded. “I mean, you know, it’s no big deal, it’s just a human life we’re talking about here.”

“Of course he was listening,” Christine retorted, doing her best to sound like she believed it.

Stephen gripped Christine’s hand momentarily, before releasing it. She withdrew her hand, satisfied with the acknowledgement.

“Okay. Sorry, Nic.” He passed a hand over his brow. “Truth is, I didn’t get enough sleep last night. It’s messing with my concentration.”

Nic didn’t seem impressed, or convinced. “You’re going into surgery like that?”

“Nic,” Christine again. Her voice was firmer this time. Nic rolled her eyes at her.

(Stephen understood. “Tired” was never an excuse among his colleagues. It was a mild gripe, at best, but never a way to get out of things.)

“I’ve gone into surgery in worse states, my patients still made it out of the operating theatre minus their tumors.” It was a bad, bad argument to make, but Stephen was in knee-jerk defense mode and was in no mood to keep his mouth in check. “Look...I’ll take a look at his records and get back to you. I just can’t be pressured into giving an opinion right now.”

“Yeah, guess that’s the best we can hope for.” Nic glared at Stephen. “It’s funny, though - back in the day, you gave your opinion whether or not it was solicited.” He stood, sighing loudly. “Next time, I’m consulting with someone who gives a shit.”

Nic left without another word. Stephen let him go, feeling like he deserved to be walked out on.

He stood to leave. Christine stood and kept pace with him.

“You _do_ give a shit,” she said quietly to him. “We both know this. So what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing.” He was aware that he sounded as tired as he felt.

“If it’s a problem with a patient, you can tell me.”

“It’s not.”

“Or with the super-secret Stark project?”

Stephen mirthlessly chuckled. “I’m fine, Christine. I just haven’t had enough sleep.”

Christine stopped him from walking by laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Stephen, I hope I know you well enough for you to let me say this,” she said in the same low, careful voice, “but something’s been different about you these past few months. You’ve changed for the better, for the most part. I think you’ve met somebody.”

Stephen scoffed, “I think I’d know if that were the case...”

“But have you?”

Stephen held his tongue.

_“Met” isn’t quite the right word for it, I’m afraid, Christine. “Thrown together” feels more accurate._

_By fate or by something else, I still can’t tell._

Christine sighed, took her hand off his shoulder. “Okay, you don’t have to tell me. I just want you to know...if this person ever gives you something to lose sleep over, you can talk to me.”

She sounded so sincere. Of course she did. Christine never faked affection.

“I can always talk to you, Christine,” he said to her with a smile. “Thank you.”

He was about to say more, but his cell phone rang. He took a look at the display.

Tony.

“Gotta take this,” he said apologetically.

“Go for it.” Christine punched him lightly in the arm. “Make sure to tell them they’re answerable to me.”

She left Stephen’s side to check up on some of her patients recovering in the wards nearby.

Stephen accepted the call.

_“Hi, I’m returning a call from Dr. Stephen Strange, genius neurosurgeon and future hottest piano bar player in New York?”_

“Very funny.” Tony sounded fine: a fact for which Stephen was genuinely thankful. “Sorry about that, Tony. I think I butt-dialed you at around 2 AM this morning. Fell asleep with my phone on my bed and rolled over on it by accident.”

_“Is that all? Good. I was afraid you were partying too hard without me, got wasted, fell into a gutter somewhere and needed someone to drag you out.”_

Also funny. They’d mutually agreed that they were done with their share of hard partying. They were seasoned professionals; there were more productive ways to get their adrenaline fix.

 _“Actually, it’s a good thing you called,”_ Tony continued before Stephen could speak. _“I wanted to tell you I’ll be heading back to New York soon, but I may not be coming back to the apartment. Something came up. I’ll be staying in the Avengers Tower until it’s done.”_

Stephen had to admit to himself he was mildly disappointed, but he decided not to let on. “Not a problem. I have my hands full here with new patients, too. I guess our research will have to be stalled a bit longer?”

_“Yeah...I think that’s going to have to take a backseat. What I’ve got on my hands now - much, much more important.”_

He recognized that confidence - it was the same as the one Tony employed when speaking to him about his med-tech projects.

Whatever this new project was, Tony was fired up over it. It must really be huge.

And, Stephen guessed: Tony wasn’t up to discussing the dream with him. In that case, he wasn’t in a position to push.

 _Thanks for robbing me of sleep for nothing, douchebag,_ he thought fondly. _Keep this up, and I'm telling Christine on you._

_“Wish I could say you’re welcome to visit,”_ Tony continued, _“but I can’t promise I’ll be able to entertain you. This thing is probably going to take up all of my waking hours.”_

Christine passed Stephen by, on her way to another ward. As she caught his eye, she pointed to the back of her wrist, as if pointing to a wristwatch.

Stephen nodded at her and waved distractedly to show he understood.

_“But I’ll definitely, definitely want to see you when I’m done. In a few days. I hope you’ll free up your schedule.”_

“Sure thing,” he said, still looking after Christine to make sure he hadn’t missed any more non-verbal cues. “Let me know when you’re available, and take care of yourself. Lots of water, no skipping meals. Love you.”

As soon as the last two words left his lips, his hand shot up to cover them.

His eyes went wide.

His face started to slowly, thoroughly grow hot and red.

 _“What?”_ the voice on the other end of the line was tickled pink. _“Say again? I missed that last part.”_

“Shut the fuck up.”

He’d hissed the words out. He was blushing. He was painfully aware of it. He hid his face from people passing by even if he didn’t know them.

There was a loud, hearty laugh on the other end of the line.

 _“Okay, then, guess I’ll just drink the water and not skip the meals.”_ Tony’s voice held a happy lilt. _“Love you, too. Asshat.”_

Any hyperventilation that was starting in Stephen was arrested by the casual tone with which those words were spoken.

He replied with a grateful chuckle.

Then he ended the call, to spare both of them any further awkwardness.

Stephen wondered if, on the other end of the line, Tony was blushing, just like he was.

He rather liked thinking about that. He’d seen Tony blush, after all. Under more considerate lighting.

He took a moment to compose himself after the call. Then he went off to prep for the upcoming surgery. There would be time to bask in this game-changing moment later.

It was amazing, how a few minutes on the phone with Tony could turn his whole day around.

He’d been feeling light-headed from lack of sleep earlier. Now, after that one call, he was wide awake and ready for anything.

 

 

***

 

 

“So you carry this over to here,” Stephen droned, “and when you’re done, you - Peter, are you listening?”

The boy’s mind was clearly far away. Stephen had brought it back to earth with those simple words.

“Huh?” Peter’s hand had been propping up his chin. He brought down that hand guiltily. “Oh...sorry, Dr. Strange. Yeah, I was listening. I swear.”

The irony did not escape Stephen; he’d been too distracted to listen to Nic West earlier in the day. Peter being similarly listless now must be some sort of karmic payback.

“In that case, please show me how to balance this equation, per what I just said.”

Peter made a show of knitting his brows in concentration. Approximately 24 seconds of pretense later, he wrote down the correct answer on the practice sheet.

But the thing was, Stephen hadn’t even taught him how to do the equation correctly yet.

In short, Peter didn’t really need a tutor.

Stephen put down his pen.

“Peter,” he said in a low, serious voice, which he hoped did not sound threatening, “I want you to tell me what’s really going on.”

Peter Parker stared at his brand-new science tutor with alarm and trepidation. Like a deer in headlights.

“I-I don’t know what you mean, doc,” he said softly. He folded his arms over his chest protectively - a move that, unexpectedly, reminded Stephen very much of Tony. “Did - did I do it wrong? Maybe we can go through it again? I’m sorry, I drifted off a bit back there. I know you’re trying your best, but science is just - “

“Is someone hurting you?”

Peter’s motor mouth stopped abruptly, and Stephen made a sincere effort to sound gentler.

“Maybe someone at your school? A bully, or an authority figure, someone you trust...”

“No,” Peter quickly answered. “Why - why would you think someone was hurting me? Do I look - do I come across as someone who was...hurting?”

“Not exactly,” was Stephen’s straightforward answer. “If anything, you look...like you’re in better shape. And more confident. Like whatever had been hurting you before, had stopped hurting you all of a sudden. But _something’s_ bothering you, and I’d like to understand.”

As Peter scrambled for an answer, Stephen took stock of what was right in front of him:

Peter was always a gangly boy, initially fated to grow lanky and thin, like _someone_ Stephen knew (he’d gone through his own high school years teased for having a “giraffe neck,” among other hurtful things).

But this current Peter seemed...different. Bulkier.

Stephen always did his best to stay up to date on the newest medical technologies. And, as far as he knew, a child didn’t change from a thin frame to a well-muscled one nearly overnight. Not even with Stark tech.

Maybe Peter had been secretly going to the gym? Taking vitamin supplements, protein shakes?

Or...worse?

It would make sense if he had a health problem: that would mean Peter came to Stephen simply because he needed a doctor. An expert who would be able to tell him if he was taking drugs that weren’t good for him.

It made him feel a bit sad. He’d accused Tony once upon a time of wanting to get close to him just because he wanted a personal physician. Tony had shot him down.

Now here was a young man who was, by all appearances, doing exactly that.

Stephen brushed the disappointment aside. He was not inclined to refuse help, if he could give it. He was going to help Peter however he could.

“Pain’s an old friend, Peter,” he assured the boy. “I can tell you’re in pain. I just need to understand what kind of pain it is and how you got it. You can trust me.”

Upon hearing this, Peter clammed up, quite visibly. Stephen hoped that meant he had gotten to the heart of the matter.

“I...” He wanted to talk. Stephen could tell that he did. He wanted to trust Stephen, very badly.

But in the end, he chose not to.

“...I have to go, Dr. Strange. It’s late. May’s gonna worry.” He gathered his books, notebooks and pens in a clear hurry, stuffed them back into the backpack he’d brought them in. “I’m really sorry. I can’t...maybe next time.”

He all but fled Stephen’s apartment.

As he heard the door close, Stephen sighed and leaned back in his chair.

Kids were never his forte. He wondered if perhaps Tony, with his more easygoing air, would have gotten farther with Peter...

Whatever it was that was bothering the boy, it seemed serious. And urgent.

Stephen could only see this one way: if he could do something about it, and he didn’t, he was at fault.

He had to do something.

At the very least, he had to find out what was wrong.

 

 

***

 

 

So, late that night, when he was sure most everyone else in the immediate vicinity was asleep, he projected his astral form into the Parkers’ apartment.

(It was the second time in a week that he’d had to end the dark ritual to perform a standard spell. Stephen knew the occasion merited it, but he sincerely hoped it wasn’t becoming a habit.)

He’d never been invited into the Parkers’ apartment, and it felt like an intrusion - a necessary one, but an intrusion nonetheless.

The place was...cozy. Cozier than his current residence, certainly. Stephen had always hired designers for his previous homes, but he couldn’t exactly afford one now even if he wanted one...and looking at other people’s apartments was a surefire way to remind himself that he couldn’t DIY his own apartment’s interior worth shit.

His first objective was to check on May. She was peacefully sleeping in her bed. Not that it mattered if she was sleeping or not, because he would remain invisible to her, unless 1) she was psychically sensitive, 2) she was specially trained to detect spiritual anomalies, or 3) Stephen wanted her to see him.

Stephen noticed the framed photo of May and a man on her nightstand. Perhaps her departed husband?

He decided not to think too much about it. Satisfied that May wasn’t going to pose a problem, he moved on to Peter’s bedroom.

There was no one there. The window was open. A light breeze blew through the thin curtain. Had Peter snuck out?

It was past midnight, and an empty bedroom that belonged to a teenager would normally be cause for worry.

But Stephen decided to treat it as an opportunity. He looked around for clues that might lead him to understand what was going on.

On the walls were pretty standard, down-to-earth stuff - vision boards, dream colleges, dream travel destinations, band posters, post-it “notes to self” on a pinup calendar - and in one corner was a janky old-school desktop computer with a CRT monitor.

It didn’t seem like a store-bought model - in fact, it seemed highly customized, made up of very well-used and not-quite-rust-free parts.

 _Peter built his own computer._ Stephen wondered if Tony would be interested to know that.

One of the “notes to self” on his calendar said _“Apr 25 - first session with Dr. Strange”_ and beneath it, in tinier, barely legible scrawl, was: _“he’s awesome. if anyone can help, he can. DON’T CHICKEN OUT.”_

That wasn’t very helpful. It just confirmed his observation that Peter was hiding something.

As he was thinking, he heard a scratching sound from outside.

It sounded...like something big was making its way along the exterior wall, toward the window.

A window that was seven stories off the ground.

Stephen scowled, stepped back into the shadows on impulse. He knew he couldn’t be seen, but he also knew there was no harm in taking extra precaution, in case the intruder happened to be psychic.

From the shadows, he watched as a human being crawled into the window.

CRAWLED.

Stephen was morbidly fascinated. It reminded him of a horror movie he’d seen once - where a long-haired ghost crawled out of a well, and out of the television screen.

But this wasn’t a ghost. This was a human - a young person - who crawled on hands and knees into the window, up the wall and across the ceiling - then flipped and landed neatly on his feet as if he weighed nothing.

Like a skilled gymnast.

Or an insect.

If this was a thug or a robber, he wasn’t dressed like a typical one. The getup looked like a costume of sorts, with black goggles over the red cloth that covered his entire face. (Could he even _see_ with those?)

He was also carrying a backpack.

The same backpack Peter had carried into Stephen’s apartment earlier.

There wasn’t much Stephen could do as an astral projection. He could move light objects and make himself visible - but that was it.

It occurred to him to spook the intruder off the premises, but he decided to wait and see what he was going to do first.

The intruder, obviously completely unaware that he wasn’t alone in the room, set down his backpack, and took off his mask.

It was Peter.

He didn’t even seem out of breath. Stephen imagined that making one’s way up seven stories and across a ceiling would take a lot out of a person, even a young person like Peter - but the boy showed no sign of tiredness or distress.

It was as if he’d just stepped out, bought something from the store, and come back indoors. No big.

Still wearing his baggy, multi-colored costume, Peter unloaded the contents of the backpack. Most of it were vials of a shimmery, milky liquid that Stephen couldn’t identify on sight.

But Stephen’s first instinct, as a doctor, was to think it was something recreational and not quite legal. It was, after all, snuck into a young person’s bedroom in the dead of night, while his guardian was fast asleep.

 _Oh, Peter_...

But to his relief, Peter showed no signs of ingesting the liquid, or taking it into his body any other way. He had a makeshift device of some sort hidden in a dresser drawer. Peter carefully installed one vial into that device, then just as carefully fitted the device around one of his wrists.

It didn’t look to Stephen like the device had a way of injecting the liquid into Peter’s bloodstream. It looked completely external.

Peter took a deep breath.

“Here goes,” he said softly to himself.

He lifted his arm, palm up, and pointed the device toward a blank spot in his vision board wall.

He bent his wrist backwards and pressed down on a button on his palm with his middle and ring fingers.

(Stephen noticed with some amusement that this gesture was similar to one commonly used by Masters of the Mystic Arts for spellcasting. He doubted Peter knew that, though. It was simply the easiest way to firmly press down on a button on one’s palm.)

A stream of white liquid shot out from the device on Peter’s wrist.

It landed on the wall and formed -

\- a web?

Stephen didn’t know how else to describe it. The liquid scattered against the wallpaper and solidified into an intricate pattern that looked very much like a spiderweb.

Impressive.

Peter let out a joyous whoop.

“Oh my God,” Peter whispered breathlessly. “Oh my God, it works! It works, I did it, I -- “

He clamped his hands over his mouth. He jumped up and down in place and soon, around his room, careful not to make too much noise as he celebrated.

Stephen still wasn’t sure what was happening. But he was sure of one thing: Peter _definitely_ didn’t need help with “science and stuff.”

Peter dropped onto his bed, still giddy. He lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling he had just crawled on, breathing hard as the excitement wound down.

Stephen then understood what kind of pain Peter was suffering from:

It was the pain of having to keep a mind-blowing secret to himself.

Peter wasn’t in trouble - not yet, at any rate. He was just dying to tell someone about his newfound powers, but was still a little overwhelmed by them.

Perhaps he was afraid of the repercussions of telling someone - like how his and his aunt’s life would change, how his friends would see him, how his schoolwork might be affected...

How he could be seen as a freak. Something to be feared.

Peter shouldn’t be hurried. That much was clear to Stephen. The boy had to decide for himself whom to tell and when.

But there was one thing Stephen could do to help that along...

He waved his hand once, and a post-it note detached itself from Peter’s wall calendar.

It was the one that said _“first session with Dr. Strange.”_

Peter jumped up out of bed as soon as the note peeled off. He caught it before it hit the ground.

Stephen’s eyebrow rose. The boy’s senses and reflexes were amped up. Part of his newfound powers, no doubt...

For a long time, Peter stared at the note on his hand thoughtfully.

Stephen had already dropped his hint and learned enough: it was the right time to make his exit.

Peter’s bedroom faded from view. Stephen returned to his tired body and his shaking hands, and willed himself to rest.

 

 

***

 

 

He would hear about it on the morning news a couple of days later: the top floors of the Avengers Tower suffered major damage from a terror attack that occurred late the previous evening.

Manhattan residents were assured, however, that the terrorists had fled, the city was safe, and that the Avengers were on the case.

Commentators on Stephen’s news feed said it was likely not a simple terror attack. Insiders reported that Tony Stark’s Iron Legion and a deadly "programming bug" were somehow involved, stoking paranoia on the airwaves.

But “terrorists” was all the news would say.

 _“Need to be out of town again for a few days,”_ Tony supplied over the phone, sounding snippy and rushed, and even less willing to give out hard facts than journalists were.

“I know the work, Tony,” Stephen answered. “But I hope you also know I can’t help worrying about you.”

_“I don’t need you worrying about me. Everything’s fine.”_

It was an unexpectedly hostile response. Stephen didn’t answer.

He heard Tony draw in a long breath. He imagined Tony hanging his head apologetically.

 _“Look. I’m sorry. It’s just...to be honest, things are bad. And I don’t know_ how _they got this bad. It’s pissing me off, but I can’t afford to let it get to me right now.”_

“You can’t even tell me how bad things really are, can you.” It was an accusation, and it probably came across to Tony as such.

 _“Why would I do that?”_ was the cold response. _“If you knew, what exactly can you do about it?”_

Oh.

That stung.

Instead of dragging the conversation out into what was likely going to be their first full-blown fight, Stephen decided to end the call as civilly as he could. Though gruff, Tony still sounded somewhat apologetic as he said goodbye.

A few days ago, they had professed their love for each other over the phone.

And then, before they could say the words to each other in person, terrible things happened and suddenly the distance between them became very real.

Tony was off to another life-threatening mission. Another one that Stephen was not welcome to be part of.

And _couldn’t_ be part of, even if he was.

It was amazing, how a few minutes on the phone with Tony could turn Stephen’s whole day on its head.

He had never before felt that way about anyone.

And a part of him was terrified.


	7. The Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deal is made, while another deal is broken. Stephen does something the Ancient One had warned he should never do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I should have mentioned in previous chapters, but overlooked: Stephen wears gloves to hide the scars in his hands, lest his patients feel uncomfortable looking at them. That’s sort of relevant in this chapter, so I’m casually mentioning it here.
> 
> We know MCU Peter is bad at keeping his own secrets, but let’s pretend for the sake of this fic that he’s good at keeping others’ XD
> 
> Another thing! In the last chapter, Stephen noticed that Peter’s hand gesture when he slings webs and his own hand gesture when he casts spells are similar. I knew I couldn’t have been the first to realize it, and I was correct! [It’s been pointed out in the comics.](https://strangeoccasions.wordpress.com/2010/06/22/spider-man-fever-3/) But I just found out about that recently XD

Strictly speaking, Stephen wasn’t helpless.

Far from it.

“Helpless” was a state of mind he kept himself in, in order to keep himself from using dark magic in ways he never should

\- from using it, for example, to save lives on the operating table.

To delete unsavory individuals from the earth.

To get something that somebody else owned, but he wanted (attachment to the material is detachment from the spiritual - a handy mantra).

To take over the world and become its emperor, wipe out all of its problems with a snap of his fingers.

To get certain people to love him more.

Things like that. Little things, when one considered that there was a vast multiverse out there, with much more to offer than the material world did.

Stephen had to keep perspective like this. He’d wanted his old life back, and that was exactly what he got.

He’d wanted a mundane existence, unaffected by anything magical.

He’d made a deal.

 

***

 

“...Doctor Strange?”

Stephen tore his eyes away from the television, which was showing news about Sokovia.

Only then did he realize that Peter had been asking him something, and he hadn’t been listening.

“I’m done with the equations.” The boy spoke cautiously, aware that Stephen’s mind was elsewhere. “You have to check them, right?”

“Peter,” he said casually, “what say we take a break from studies for now?”

He shut the chemistry textbook in front of him. Took the notebook and pen from Peter’s hands, shut the notebook, and laid them both flat on top of the dining table they used as a work desk.

“I want to show you something,” Stephen began. “But first, I want you to promise me one thing.”

Nervousness and curiosity played on Peter’s face.

“What is it, Doc?”

“That you won’t freak out.”

Peter’s brows furrowed. “Why would I...”

Stephen removed the black cloth gloves he wore.

Peter stared at his uncovered hands. He would, of course. It was his first time seeing them.

“Car accident.” Stephen held up his hands, so Peter could get a better look. “The nerves were all but disintegrated. Common knowledge. Made the headlines, you know.”

He doubted that Peter had been aware of how the accident had made waves on the news - he might have been too young to care, at the time.

“Well,” Peter reluctantly remarked, “they’re not so bad now...I mean they look completely healed. Which is what they are. Right?”

Stephen willed out the dark energy from his body. It was over quickly. Apart from a slight wind from nowhere briefly stirring his hair, Peter should not have been able to see it happen.

“The scars aren’t what I want to show you, Peter.”

As the boy watched, Stephen’s hands started to tremble.

“This is.”

He held out one shaking hand.

An empty coffee mug shot out like a bullet from over Peter’s shoulder.

And landed neatly in Stephen’s grip.

Peter jumped to his feet.

 _“Holy shit!”_ the boy exclaimed.

Stephen let go of the mug, and it floated in the air by itself.

Peter’s eyes went wide as plates.

Stephen traced a circle in the air with his forefinger, and the mug spun vertically in place. Then he made the mug move in a spiral that grew and grew, drawing closer and closer to Peter, until it was able to dance around him in circles.

The boy laughed, astounded. He reached for the mug, and it stopped moving so he could hold it in both hands.

Peter thoroughly inspected the thing. No strings anywhere. No magnets.

“H-how...” he stammered.

“Magic. That’s the simplest way I can explain it.”

With another small gesture, Stephen made the mug disappear from Peter’s hands.

The boy stepped back and looked around him, alarmed.

“Oh God - where is it?”

“Back on its rack.” Stephen smiled. “I like to keep stuff where they belong.”

Peter turned and saw the mug behind him. “Holy shit,” he said again, softer this time, as he stared.

“So now you know my secret,” Stephen said to Peter. “I’ve been called ‘the man with the steadiest hands in the world.’ But I can only keep my hands steady through magic. And I can’t keep them steady and do other kinds of magic at the same time.”

(Not the whole truth, but the truth, nonetheless.)

Stephen breathed out loudly, clapped his hands together once.

“Whew! That was a relief. It’s been hard keeping a secret that big to myself.”

Peter was incredulous.

“But that’s fricking _awesome_ , man,” he cried. “You can fricking do _magic_. That’s fricking COOL!”

Peter resumed his seat, more fascinated than frightened. Which was definitely the outcome Stephen had been hoping for.

In Stephen’s mind, the alternative was that the boy was going to run away screaming. But Peter Parker was more curious than anything. Faced with something new, even something that could potentially kill him, his default reaction was amazement.

Peter leaned forward eagerly, elbows on the table. “I have _so. Many._ _Questions._ ”

“Feel free to ask them,” Stephen replied. “But before you do, I want to tell you something.”

Stephen leaned forward as well.

“I trust you, Peter,” he said in low, conspiratorial tone. “I trust you’ll keep my secret safe. If this gets out, my life could change completely or fall apart.” He added knowingly, “I know you know how that feels like.”

Peter blinked. Hearing this restored some of his nervousness from earlier. What did this well-meaning neighbor know?

“And I want you to feel like you can trust me, too,” Stephen continued. “If there’s anything weighing down on you - anything you may need help with - I want you to know that I’m here for you.”

Having said his piece, Stephen picked up his gloves again and put them on. His hands still shook, but it was safer to keep them shaking; he wasn’t about to perform a Dark ritual while a child was watching.

“I know, Doc,” Peter said after a pensive pause. “I know you’re there for me. And that I can trust you. That’s why I came to you in the first place.”

He fidgeted for a bit after that, as he struggled to find the words. Stephen waited patiently for him to finish.

“So I guess my first question is...if I tell you something...something I’ve been keeping secret...you won’t freak out, either, right?”

Stephen easily nodded.

“Whatever it is,” he said reassuringly, “I’m almost a hundred percent sure it’s not any weirder than being a doctor who can do magic.”

That called up a chuckle from Peter.

“Guess I can’t argue with that...”

First, Peter let out a long and deep sigh.

“Okay, so,” he carefully began, “a couple days ago, we were on this field trip for science class, to a lab owned by Oscorp, right? And there was this spider...”

 

***

 

Long after Peter had gone back to his apartment, Stephen still couldn’t sleep.

He stayed on the couch, keeping tabs on the news.

It was pandemonium in Sokovia.

There were no live feeds from the ground. Internet, mobile and radio signals going out of Sokovia were virtually nonexistent. Local news outfits couldn’t broadcast, international crews couldn’t fly in, and no one had access to social media.

More than once, news anchors said that their best shot at getting concrete details was to wait for survivors’ stories - if anyone were to survive.

So Stephen devoured what information he could get. Even if the broadcasters repeated the same bits of info and over, just to fill dead air - he listened carefully.

He didn’t dare miss a thing.

Around midnight, aerial cameras from neighboring countries finally showed something different - the entire nation of Sokovia rising into the air.

Sokovia was landlocked and surrounded by mountains, so international forces based in neighboring countries had a hard time getting there. That the place was rapidly shooting up into the atmosphere did nothing to make it easier for them.

Stephen watched the nation’s ascent, trembling fingers clenched together tight, as if in prayer.

Somewhere in that chaos was Tony.

Thinking about it made his chest ache.

 _“This just in,”_ the news anchor said in a slightly more urgent tone than usual, _“we’ve received word that a Sokovia local found a way to broadcast from his mobile phone. We’ll be showing you live footage from downtown Sokovia. We repeat, this footage is coming to you_ live _from_ within _Sokovia.”_

Stephen sat upright as the live stream began.

The person who held the mobile phone was hiding behind debris. His hands, understandably, were shaking violently, and the visuals were all over the place, so it was hard to make heads or tails of what was happening.

What was clear enough to anyone watching was that it was a war zone. There were explosions, screams, dead bodies everywhere.

There were also humanoid robots flying all over the place.

Were they the Iron Legion? They were moving too fast and the video was too shaky, and Stephen couldn’t be sure. He had never seen any of the Iron Legion in person, but he knew what they looked like from photos and videos.

The broadcaster was attempting to explain what was happening, but the phone could hardly pick up his voice in all the background noise. He was using his native language, too, so even if the phone could pick up some of what he was saying, Stephen couldn’t understand it.

Frustration began to eat away at him.

Soon after the live stream began, a male voice with an American accent yelled nearby:

 _“What are you doing?_ Move! _Put that phone in your pocket and get to evac_ now!”

There was a glimpse of the speaker: the Avenger known as Hawkeye. Clint Barton.

Hawkeye dragged the broadcaster out of his hiding place and hurried him along, shouting encouragement for the young man to run faster. As the broadcaster ran, he still attempted to film and comment on as much as he could.

For the briefest of moments, the broadcaster’s phone caught a glimpse of red and gold, at a battleground nearby. The Iron Man.

A swarm of humanoid robots were fast closing in on him.

Stephen leapt to his feet.

Tony.

Tony was in trouble.

 

***

 

Stephen stared at his shaking, gloved hands.

He hadn’t performed the Dark ritual yet.

He could portal over to where Tony was.

...But then what?

Was he going to risk becoming another casualty, just so Tony could puzzle over how the fuck his dead body got all the way there from New York?

Would his paltry assortment of standard spells (little more than party tricks) be of any real help?

Did he have time to care?

He decided that he didn’t.

A grim look fell over Stephen’s face. He steeled himself.

And opened a portal.

 

***

 

He stepped right into the war zone, and the portal closed behind him.

He had made sure he would enter Sokovia at the place shown in the video, the place near where the robots and the Iron Man clashed.

He could hear the sounds of vicious fighting nearby. But he looked around, and couldn’t find Tony anywhere.

Just then he heard a voice. He turned toward it. There was a woman lying nearby, her left leg visibly broken and bleeding out.

The woman was repeatedly saying something to him. Stephen didn’t need to understand Sokovian to know what she was trying to say.

“Stay calm,” he told her, crouching down so he could help her up. “Don’t be afraid. Breathe.”

If she didn’t calm down, she would lose more blood than she already had. Not to mention her heart might give out, if it happened to be weak.

He was sure she couldn’t understand him, but he needed to engage her attention all the same.

“I need to get you to safety,” he said to her. “Come with me.”

She slung her arm around his shoulders and let him carry her in his arms to a nearby abandoned low building, which was somehow still standing in spite of the constant shelling.

There wasn’t much to use for first aid - strips of cloth from the woman’s dress to use as bandages and stem the blood flow, plus a splint from the many pieces of wood that lay in the area.

No disinfectant - that would have to come later.

“I’m sorry I have to leave,” he said to her, when he was done with the splint. “But I promise I’ll get help for you.”

He left the building, with the confused woman yelling after him. He was sure his departure worried her, but time was of the essence.

As he reached the door, however, a group of people, some wounded, barred his exit.

“Please,” one of the group said in English - a young woman who seemed unhurt, for the most part. “We have wounded and we can’t reach the ships. We need help.”

He hesitated - and then caught himself. He couldn’t believe this was even up for an internal debate.

“All right,” he answered, “bring everyone inside. I’m a doctor. I’ll do what I can.”

When all the wounded were laid down on the ground, alongside the woman with the fresh splint on her leg, Stephen tasked the young woman who had spoken to him to find emergency supplies.

She knew there was a municipal clinic in the vicinity. She left, and came back quickly with the medicine and bandaging equipment he requested.

He made fast work of all the wounded, paying closer attention to the more urgent cases - then finally left, feeling guilty that he couldn’t stay.

But he didn’t have time. Not for charity or guilt.

He had to find Tony.

 

***

 

As it turned out, he didn’t need to look very far.

Tony came to him.

To be more precise, the Iron Man flew right in front of him, as Tony distanced himself from another swarm of robots on his tail.

This swarm looked even bigger than the last one - the one that had brought a panicked Stephen to Sokovia.

From what Stephen could see, the Iron Man looked beaten up. Not damaged, but certainly the worse for wear.

Stephen was sure he wasn’t spotted. But he hid himself behind the biggest piece of concrete he could find, all the same.

That brought him face to face with the swarm in pursuit of Tony.

Instinctively, Stephen crouched down and braced for impact.

But the robots flew past him.

That was how Stephen knew he wasn’t in their radar at all.

He watched as the Iron Man, already far away but still within his field of vision, stopped mid-flight. Turned. Faced the swarm.

 _No. Tony, NO,_ he wanted to shout. _There’s too many of them._

They were out for blood.

Tony’s blood.

He couldn’t let them have it.

But he searched the arsenal of spells in his head, and couldn’t think of one that might be of use to Tony right now.

None from Kamar-Taj.

 

***

 

“The missing pages from the Book of Cagliostro don’t simply speak of channeling energy from the Dark Dimension into your body,” the Ancient One said. “They also tell of how to harness dark energy not to heal, but to kill. These spells are too strong for ordinary humans...but they are not beyond a person who is both skilled in magic and naturally talented in it - such as yourself.”

She had contained the two of them in the mirror dimension, so they would not be overheard. There would be no practice, she had warned him beforehand: the spells they were discussing were too dangerous to even attempt.

“I will teach you about these spells, Stephen...but I will warn you never to cast them. These spells would need you to draw enormous amounts of dark energy. So much would open your mind and spirit to Dormammu.”

That was the main risk of attempting the spells in the Book: exposing oneself to the ruler of the Dark Dimension. Using dark energy to heal oneself was a negligible thing - but using it to heal others, or to kill: that drew the attention of Dormammu himself.

“If the choice were mine, I would not have allowed you, a novice in the Mystic Arts, to even know about such spells. But you know about them already. The best I can do is to guide you, so that you do not misuse them.”

In fact, the best she could have done, Stephen said to himself, was to wipe the spells from his mind. He knew she could do it - he’d seen her do it before.

But she didn’t opt for it - and in this case, Stephen could only take the advice of a fellow in Kamar-Taj known as Mordo: _forget everything you know, and_ _trust your teacher_.

Masters knew more than novices did. And the Ancient One knew a hell of a lot more than every other Master in the world did.

Perhaps she’d seen in his future that he would have need of them at one point. There would be a right time to use them. That was why she’d allowed him to keep the memories of the spells.

And in that case...

Wasn’t _now_ the right time to use them?

Wasn’t now as good a time as any?

 

***

 

No time for guilt.

No time for second thoughts.

Stephen made the necessary ritualistic gestures, finally crossing his arms over his chest, with his fingers forming the shapes the book recommended.

Dark energy flooded into him at a strength and speed he wasn’t quite prepared for.

He was almost knocked flat on his back. It was _nothing_ like the ritual he used to heal his hands.

This was...

 _Exhilarating_.

When the magic stabilized inside him, he didn’t just feel healed. He felt _powerful_.

Like he could take life. _Any_ life.

He could ruin anything.

Dark magic was, as to be expected, a force for destruction. It was all Stephen could do to remind himself that he had not drawn so much of it to destroy.

He needed it to protect.

Tony.

With great effort, he focused. He saw that the robotic swarm was speeding toward Tony and in just a few seconds, he would be overwhelmed by them.

There was no time to lose.

He channeled the energy inside him into a vein that sped in Tony’s direction.

It enveloped the Iron Man in a sphere of deep purple light.

This confounded Tony’s attackers for a moment, made them stop and hover around the sphere.

Quickly, with eyes enhanced with dark energy, Stephen took stock of the robots surrounding Tony. How many needed to be dispensed with. Where they were located.

Then he willed the sphere open.

The sphere broke apart into what spectators would later describe as a pair of giant black-and-purple wings.

Spreading out behind the Iron Man.

And as the wings unfurled, they threw out a spherical blast of magic strong enough to disintegrate all the robots in the immediate vicinity.

Metal turned to ash.

And for a moment the Iron Man floated amid an ashfall rain, the wings behind him looming large and menacing, blocking out the light from the sky.

The fortunate robots that were out of the blast radius had the sense to flee.

Tony was out of danger.

Stephen let out a breath. It came out as relieved laughter.

Then he made the wings dissolve into thin air.

He was about to will himself into Tony’s eyes. He could do it, with the magic still in his body. He could see what Tony saw.

He wanted to know how Tony reacted. How he might have felt when the sphere-turned-wings appeared.

But that was when a voice entered his head.

 

**YOU’VE OPENED YOURSELF**

**TO ME**

**AT LAST**

 

The voice was loud. Extremely loud.

It drilled into his brain like a jackhammer.

Stephen let out a yell and fell back, holding his head.

**AND FOR WHAT?**

**A SINGLE**

**MISERABLE**

**HUMAN LIFE**

**NOT EVEN YOUR OWN?**

 

Stephen desperately willed the dark energy out of his body.

He couldn’t.

The magic clung to him painfully. He felt it digging its claws into his astral form, wrapping itself around him.

His heart pounded inside his chest.

**HOW...**

**...SMALL**

 

Stephen cried out as his forehead burned. It felt like someone was carving something into it with fire.

_No no no no no_

_Have to get it out_

He called forth every ounce of astral strength he had.

And pushed the dark energy out of his veins.

His effort was rewarded with laughter - a dark, malevolent laughter, so strong that it blocked out even his vision.

He chose not to be distracted by this. He didn’t need to see to free himself.

**YOU ARE MINE**

**LITTLE WIZARD**

**AS YOU SHOULD BE**

 

Stephen pushed harder. Surrender wasn’t an option, and there was nothing else he could do.

_I have to get it out_

Soon, he felt the dark energy draining away. Slowly. Much too slowly.

Small amounts of energy could leave his body without a trace. But this much was bound to be visible even to people with no special psychic ability.

Others might see him. Tony might see him.

He needed to leave that place.

Now.

Still bleeding out dark magic, with demonic laughter still ringing in his ears, Stephen opened a portal back to his apartment in New York and stumbled into it, closed it swiftly behind him.


	8. Healers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen recovers from the events in Sokovia. In so doing, he learns more about the true cost of his actions. Some things are broken, some are mended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Notes: I’ve come to a decision: I’m going to skip Civil War for this fic. I already have the scenes mapped out for that timeframe, but they’re going to lengthen the story and I’m getting impatient. 
> 
> I may add a chapter or two for the Civil War events sometime, as a “related work” to this one. Or I may not (if people want it, let me know!).
> 
> Basically, the next chapters are going to draw the story to a close. I don’t know yet how many chapters that will take, but that’s enough spoilers, for now.
> 
> HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

The portal closed, and he fell to the floor of his bedroom on his hands and knees.

Dark purple and black waves of energy still swam behind his sightless eyes.

Worse, the laughter still echoed inside his head.

Mercifully, though, the sound was fading - he could perhaps wait it out.

But what worried him was that he felt his physical and astral strength draining out of him, as well.

It might as well be blood oozing out of him.

If that was the case, waiting was definitely not the way to go...

...but how did one handle magic bleeding?

The spells in his head, even the ones from the Book of Cagliostro, told him nothing.

And he hadn’t stayed in Kamar-Taj long enough to know of any other remedies.

Stephen had to ask himself:

Was this the end?

And if so, was it worth it?

 _Yes,_ his laboring heart told him, _yes_.

_If Tony was safe._

But his logical brain brought him back to earth, told him he might not achieved that goal. He had just made sure Tony was safe from the robotic swarm.

Tony appeared to have been facing a much bigger problem than the swarm, and Stephen hadn’t exactly stuck around to find out what it was.

Maybe, in the end, Stephen hadn’t done much.

The thought almost plunged him into despair.

He should have known more. Done more. _Been_ more.

But letting his guard down taught him one thing: it made the dark visions in his head grow clearer, the oppressive voice and laughter return.

**YOU CAN’T HIDE**

 

He had to bring his guard back up, shut the voice and the noise and the chaos out.

No. He couldn’t afford to doubt himself and lose control.

Somehow, crawling forward, he found his way to his bed.

As he carefully laid himself down on it, he imagined his body as a half-corpse, a miasma of black-and-purple energy surrounding it. He could barely feel his physical presence now. His earthly senses zeroed in on making sure the dark energy pouring inside him in torrents, somehow flowed back out.

He shrank into himself to keep safe, and felt his mortal body turn empty.

Like a frail, hollow shell about to crumble.

 

***

 

He had no idea how much time had passed, as he drifted in and out of sightless nightmare, before his vision slowly returned.

Utter darkness was a welcome sight, after the chaos of his infection. Soon after it fell, he saw the Ancient One walking toward him, out of the pitch black.

An astral projection - it must be.

Stephen looked down at himself, his hands which did not shake in spirit form. He still wore the clothes he’d worn to Sokovia, minus the dirt and soot. Much of what he could see of his astral body was cut up and bruised.

“I think,” the Ancient One greeted, hands clasped behind her back, “this is exactly the right time to say ‘I told you so.’”

She was trying to make matters light. Stephen recognized it. He hung his head in apology.

“I had my reasons,” he murmured. “Master.”

“None of it matters now,” she gently said. “You have the mark. Dormammu’s mark. Things have changed for you, Stephen. They can never be the same.”

“Is there...a way to remove it?”

The Ancient One shook her head.

“The mark placed by a dimensional ruler is permanent. Your only hope to avoid him is to never draw power from the dark dimension again. To keep him from finding a way back to you.”

Stephen stared at her.

“But...I...I need my hands.”

There was pity in the Ancient One’s eyes.

“Clearly, Doctor Strange, your hands are no longer enough for you. Maybe they never were.”

The way she said “doctor” sounded remorseful. As if it was a personal failing of hers.

It made Stephen feel guiltier, if that was at all possible.

“I will do my best to speed your recovery, and to cleanse your body of dark magic,” the Ancient One declared. “But you must understand, Stephen, that the help I can extend is limited. I cannot protect you from Dormammu.”

“I understand,” Stephen said, as deferentially as he could. “You have the mark, too.”

The Ancient One’s lips formed a half-smile.

“You know what it means.” It wasn’t a question.

“He said I was his,” Stephen disclosed. “A slave mark?”

“Of a sort. Ultimately, it means he has power over you. You can never be in a position to reason or bargain with him. And he can control you if you give him access to your consciousness again.”

Stephen felt he was not in a position to ask _how_ the Ancient One got her mark. If she felt it was relevant for him to know, she would have told him already.

“What happens then?” Stephen asked her. “If I let him in?”

The Ancient One’s face fell and she took her time answering. She walked slowly as she talked, with Stephen following close behind her.

“You will lose yourself. You will become drunk with power, believing that your cause for using dark magic is noble. You will commit atrocities under Dormammu’s influence, without feeling that you are acting in any capacity but your own. I’ve seen it all before.

“Remember, Stephen, that when you first came to us, I told you about powers older than time - powers which seek to devour this Earth, and which we Masters of the Mystic Arts strive to keep at bay. Dormammu is such a power. He has been watching the Earth for a long time. He has enslaved other humans before. Rare are the ones who have escaped his thrall. Rarer still are the ones who’ve survived it.”

“Can...” Stephen ventured. “Can I do it? Can I survive, if he takes over?”

“You are stubborn. And magically gifted. An ordinary mortal wouldn’t have come out of your encounter with Dormammu with their sanity intact. You won’t give up your consciousness so easily, even to a force much stronger than yourself.” She looked at him again. “But you are also human. A novice in the Mystic Arts. You can only resist for so long.”

Stephen stopped walking. His thoughts were coming together. And they reached a conclusion he did not like.

“That means...I have no choice,” he said to himself. “I can’t draw dark energy to heal my hands anymore.”

The Ancient One stopped walking, as well, and faced him.

“Come back with me to Kamar-Taj,” she said to him. “Learn more about your own strengths. There are other places to take magic from, other spells to learn. I can’t promise anything definite, but with time, and training, you may be able to draw from the Dark Dimension again. The mark can never be removed, but you could find ways to keep out of Dormammu’s sight.”

 _Like I do_ , was the unspoken addition. _Master the skills I have mastered. And maybe, like me, you will survive._

But if Stephen did as the Ancient One suggested, that would mean leaving again.

“I’ve made a life here,” Stephen answered weakly. “I can’t just abandon...my patients. My friends.”

_Peter. Christine. Tony._

“But without my hands...what use am I? To them, or to anyone? Even myself?”

The Ancient One was silent. It seemed at one point that she was about to say something, but she stopped herself, and her gaze appeared to turn inward.

Stephen wondered if she was using one of her forward-looking spells that time. Or if she was detecting a new threat in the vicinity. She had so many unfathomable quirks, it was always hard to tell.

In the end, she smiled at him, but the expression was distant and detached.

“You have time to consider,” she told him. “But enough talk. Your body and spirit are spent. For now... _heal_.”

She held out her hand, palm toward him. Stephen’s vision of her faded - or was it he who was fading? - and soon he was back in the darkness alone.

At the same time, he felt, slowly, his connection to his own body returning.

 

***

 

Again, time escaped him after that.

Had it been days? Weeks?

_“...Strange? Doctor Strange?”_

He vaguely felt himself being shaken awake. There was someone in the room with him.

He knew that voice.

“Doc, please wake up. Please. I don’t know what I’m going to do if -“

“Peter?” he said weakly.

He opened his eyes. Saw a familiar face looking down at his with a definite look of concern.

Peter backed up, hands out in front of him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” the boy kept saying. “It’s just...I’ve been calling you for days, and you haven’t answered, even with a text, and you always text me back, so I -- ” He pointed to the nearby wall. “ -- kind of broke your window. I saw you in here, on your bed, not moving, and I just had a bad feeling...”

“How long?” he rasped. Speaking hurt. His throat was parched.

Peter calmed down enough to answer Stephen’s questions.

“I dunno, Doc...the last time we met up was around four days ago, so...at most, it’s been that long?”

Four days. No wonder his body felt like shit. His muscles might have already started to atrophy. Starvation and dehydration were also very real risks.

“Are you okay, can I get you anything...maybe water?”

“Yes. Water. Please.”

He was probably going to need an IV drip. And he couldn’t get that himself, or ask Peter to get it for him.

Peter rushed back from the kitchen with a glass of water. “Maybe some food, too? What kind of food? Or is food going to make you worse? I’m - I’m sorry, Doc, I don’t know what’s up and I don‘t know what I’m doing...”

Stephen sat up with a struggle, tried to reach for the glass. But his hand was too weak and shaky to hold anything. Resigned, he brought it back down to the bed.

Peter acted fast. He slipped a hand behind Stephen’s head to hold it up. Stephen could feel the strength in that hand, tempered by compassion.

Gently, Peter put the glass of water to Stephen’s lips, tipped it so Stephen could take a few slow sips. Some water still spilled onto his neck and chest, but Peter wiped it off immediately.

Finally moistened, Stephen’s still-painful vocal cords found it easier to form words.

“Christine,” he rasped. “Call Christine.”

He pointed to the cell phone on the bed stand. Peter saw it was turned off (Stephen vaguely remembered having to turn it off before heading to Sokovia, as he was fully intending to be unreachable), and switched it on.

Peter squinted at the smartphone’s monitor. “You got...wow, fifteen voicemails from Sarah, two from Tony, three from me, and seven from Christine.” He turned to Stephen. “Should I just redial?”

Stephen nodded.

Peter obeyed immediately.

And Christine picked up almost as quickly. Peter held the phone close to Stephen’s ear.

_“What the hell, Stephen? No one’s been able to reach you in days. You missed your scheduled surgeries. Your patients are flooding your clinic with calls. Poor Sarah’s having a breakdown!”_

“Christine,” he interrupted, speaking slowly. He was aware he sounded sick. “I’m sorry, I need you to listen...”

_“Where are you?_

“In my apartment. Queens.”

_“All this time? Seriously?”_

“No. Took a brief trip overseas. To see to...someone who needed my help.” Not untrue. “I didn’t have cell phone signal there or on the plane. As soon as I came home, I came down something. A bug, I think.”

 _“_ Where _overseas?”_ Christine sounded unconvinced, but also less hostile. _“What kind of bug? What are your symptoms?”_

Stephen swallowed. “I might be dehydrated. thought I’d get better soon, but...”

_“Wait. It sounds like you have a medical emergency. I’m coming over.”_

Christine ended the call without giving him time to protest.

Peter laid the phone back on the bed stand.

“I should...probably be out by the time she gets here?” the boy ventured.

Stephen shook his head.

“Stay,” he instructed. “She may need to ask you some things. And talk about medications. And tell you not to listen to me if I try to act like my own doctor.”

“Uh,” Peter stammered, “o-okay. Sure, Doc. I’d love to help. I could, uh...fix that window while I’m here, or something.”

He really did love to help. Stephen already knew that. He saw someone he cared about who needed him, and he wasn’t going anywhere.

“But Doc,” the boy cautiously asked, “is this really a bug, what you have? Not something more serious, like - something magical?”

“You’re very perceptive,” Stephen remarked. “But I’ll tell you about it...after I’ve eaten.”

Peter got to his feet. “Oh! Right!”

“If that’s okay.”

“No no of course, I’m sorry, I’ll go and get you that - what can I get you?”

Soup, Stephen suggested; it wasn’t likely he could digest much else. There was some in the cabinet over the kitchen sink. Peter wasted no time heading in that direction.

While Peter was gone, Stephen took stock of how he felt...and what he could and could not tell people.

Neither Christine nor Peter knew about Tony. And only one of them knew that he could do magic.

He suddenly realized that there was always something about him that the people closest to him now didn’t know.

But not one of them could possibly know everything. Not even Tony.

While he was still healing, and getting his head around the changes he had inadvertently made to his own existence, further complications were the _last_ thing he needed.

 

***

 

“This can’t be a simple bug,” Christine concluded after a fast routine check. “We need to get you in for tests.”

“No,” Stephen protested. “no hospitals.”

“No hospitals??” Christine put on her _“Oh I see what’s going on”_ face - a familiar expression, to Stephen. “Don’t tell me you did something you weren’t supposed to while you were overseas...”

Stephen couldn’t even muster a sheepish grin.

“My first time there. Couldn’t resist.”

She sighed loudly. “What is it, then? Poisoning? EID? STD?”

“Please, Christine,” he huffed, then meekly continued, “...definitely not an STD.”

She was about to say something else, but she finally noticed something which alarmed her.

“Oh, Stephen, your hands,” she breathed. “What happened to your hands?”

She took his hands in hers, held them up. They trembled visibly.

“I thought they were all better...”

“I guess not,” Stephen answered, nonchalant. “But it’s not as bad as before the relapse. Maybe they’ll get better when I recover from...whatever this is.”

They wouldn’t. Not unless he drew from the Dark Dimension, which he was supposed to avoid, if he wanted to live.

But Christine was worried enough. He had to give her some of the hope that he himself couldn’t afford to harbor.

“I really hope you’re right,” she said to him. “But in this state...I don’t think you can do much with them. Whether or not you get yourself admitted, you’re going to need help. You’re not allowed to argue with me on this.”

“I won’t,” Stephen assured her. “I’m aware of my limitations. Right now, for example, I need your help to hand me my phone.”

Christine did as she was asked, then excused herself; she had to make calls of her own, one of them to Sarah: Stephen’s poor, suffering receptionist, who must be close to handing in her resignation by now.

Stephen was grateful she had stepped out, because expending too much effort just to check one’s messages was, frankly, humiliating to him.

It took him much longer than normal to operate his phone with fingers that wouldn’t stay still. He scrolled past all the frantic “WHERE ARE YOU?” texts from Sarah, to get to the one single text Tony had sent:

_“Will be in Queens on the 14 th. Let’s talk.”_

 

***

 

Understandably, Christine was weirded out to hear that her friend _absolutely needed_ to get better by the 14th. There was going be a “very important meeting,” was his only explanation, which she grudgingly accepted.

But “better” was relative. Thanks to Christine and Peter’s care, he was able to quickly regain some strength in his body, enough to keep himself upright and mobile.

He still needed help to shave, but he could prepare food for himself, keep himself clean and operate his cell phone. That was enough, for the time being.

Although he never contacted Tony.

At first, he wasn’t sure why. Was it just pride?

But by the time the 14th rolled around, it didn’t matter.

He opened the door for Tony, careful not to let Tony see his hands. As soon as Tony stepped inside, he stuck his hands inside his pockets.

He couldn’t read the expression on Tony’s face. He didn’t seem annoyed. But the usual excitement, the greeting smile that brought out the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes - it wasn’t there.

The first thing Tony said to him was: “So, is it over?”

Stephen frowned. “Is what over?”

“I’m a busy man, Strange.” Stephen hadn’t heard that cold tone directed at him in ages. “Give it to me straight. This thing between us. Is it over?”

Stephen shook his head. “I feel like I’m missing something here...”

“Let me break it down for you.” Tony stepped up to him. “The last time we spoke, I said some harsh words. I tried calling to say I was sorry. But you weren’t picking up. I was stressed out, and overwhelmed, and mad, and I hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep, and I took it out on you. And I’m sorry.” He looked away briefly. “It’s been eating me up. Okay? But I couldn’t apologize. You didn’t take my calls. Didn’t even leave a message. Didn’t show up for days at the lab or at your clinic - I called there, too, by the way, of course I would. Your receptionist was the one who told me you were home sick, and said you weren’t even the one who told her.” He held his hands out to Stephen. “So, what’s the deal? Where are we now?”

Over the months, Stephen had come to recognize that when Tony was upset, he slid into a mode that Stephen could only call “strictly business.” He would be formal, commanding, impatient. Stephen had seen it happen a few times.

“We’re...exactly where we left off, Tony.”

“Are you sure? In that case, why vanish on me? On everybody? Are we just...what. Not worth your time?”

Stephen kept his eyes on Tony’s. He could _see_ Tony retreating further into his mode, placing layers of steel between them.

He’d told Christine he might’ve caught a bug overseas. He couldn’t tell Tony the same lie.

He didn’t have to.

He only had to take his hands out of his pockets and hold them up for Tony to look at.

For a beat, Tony stared, uncomprehending.

Then Tony lunged forward, seized Stephen’s hands. He gripped them in his own - as if he thought that by holding them tightly enough, he could stop their shaking.

“What’s this?” he quietly demanded.

“When it started, I could barely hold a phone,” Stephen said faintly. “Couldn’t even take care of myself. The shaking is much better now, but it hasn’t gone away. I don’t know if it ever will again.”

“God, Stephen...” he said through gritted teeth, without sounding the least bit angry. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“If you knew, what exactly could you have done about it?”

A mess of emotions played on Tony's face after hearing those words thrown back at him. Surprise. Indignation. Regret.

But at the end, regret won. He sighed. "I deserved that."

"You certainly did." Stephen smiled bitterly.

“When did it happen?”

“Around a week ago, I think.”

“ _How_ did it happen? Did you eat anything, drink anything, _do_ anything...”

“No,” Stephen quickly answered. An excuse came to him, one that was not, strictly speaking, a lie: “Well, I started taking on more patients. Back to back surgeries. I think I might have...overstretched myself a bit.”

“And it didn’t help when I messed up our last call, did it?”

“What?” Stephen exclaimed. “ _No_ , Tony, that’s crazy.”

“Stress can do a lot of crazy things,” Tony said, clearly from experience.

“Stress could be a factor, yes. But, Tony - it’s not you. You’re one of the least stressful things in my life. You always were.” He smiled sadly. “I’m just sorry I won’t be able to play the piano for you anymore.”

Tony looked down at his and Stephen’s hands thoughtfully.

“Can’t say I won’t miss it,” he mumbled. “The New York jazz scene isn’t going to be the same without you.”

Perhaps Stephen had hoped Tony would go back to his old considerate self once he knew the truth...but he wasn’t quite prepared for how _affectionate_ Tony was being, how the warmth from his hands spread to all over Stephen’s body.

It was as if the Tony he knew had walked into the place wearing armor, but it melted away in a flash.

In that case, maybe, it was time to tell Tony about his plans. He was going back to Kathmandu. To Kamar-Taj. He was going to try and heal himself again. To try and undo whatever he had just doomed himself to.

Or to fail and never come back.

“I don’t want to be a burden to you. Or to anyone. I’m thinking of going away.”

“Going away?” Tony stepped back without releasing his hands. “Are you serious? In your condition?”

“Yes, in my condition.” Stephen fought the impulse to move away altogether. “I’ve been down this road before, you know. I was alone. I made it. I’ll make it again.”

“See, the thing is, you’re not alone anymore, are you.”

Tony finally let go of Stephen’s hands so he could wrap his arms around Stephen’s waist and pull him closer.

“You know I’ll respect whatever you decide. But I meant what I said.”

“Which was what?”

Tony laughed, incredulous.

“You’re really going to make me say it?”

“If what you want is for me to stay,” Stephen answered nonetheless, “then yes. Please.”

That “please” was the clincher. Tony leaned up for a lingering, heartfelt kiss.

Then he touched their foreheads together.

“I love you. Stay with me.” His voice was soft, pleading. “We’ll get through this.”

 

***

 

They discussed their options in the dark, on Stephen’s bed, holding each other close.

Stephen was sick of therapy and surgeries. He refused medical intervention. Tony knew about the hellish months after Stephen’s accident, so he didn’t press the matter.

As for magical intervention...Stephen wasn’t about to tell Tony about Kamar-Taj. All his plans of going back had dissolved into thin air, so it was pointless to even tell Tony about them.

In the end, they decided that Stephen was going to quit his practice and report to the Midtown labs full-time, although he wasn’t going to give up consultancy work - there were too many patients who relied on his availability.

But his relapse would have to be made public, of course. There was a need to minimize new patients.

Besides - if his surgical skills were _absolutely necessary_ , the current Strange Device prototype was hopefully available for practical testing.

“Now I get why you fought so hard for that function,” Tony mused. “I was thinking, why would motion stabilizers need to be _that_ precise?”

“Because human error can be fatal.” Stephen sighed. “Honestly, Tony, I didn’t know I was going to relapse. It was just a necessary addition. And it’ll take a _lot_ of calibration to make it usable for a surgeon with hands as bad as mine, anyway. I’ll get to work on that as soon as I’m back on my feet.”

Tony chuckled, planted a kiss on the top of Stephen’s head. “My doctor doesn’t have an off switch.”

Stephen smiled. “Neither does my engineer.”

“Speaking of doctors with no off switch - you know the funniest thing?” Tony said after a thoughtful pause. “There was a small group of people in Sokovia who said they saw you there.”

Stephen gently broke away from Tony’s embrace. He propped himself up on the bed with an elbow, so he could see Tony’s face.

“What?”

“Well, not you,” Tony immediately corrected. “Someone who looked like you. Tall man, thin, graying at the temples. Wore black gloves. Was going around helping people and telling them he was a doctor.”

Stephen chuckled, hoping his relief wouldn’t be evident.

“Really, Tony...I doubt I’m the only tall, thin, black-gloved doctor with graying temples who goes around helping people.”

“Okay, genius, I knew it wasn’t you,” Tony retorted, rolling his eyes. “As soon as trouble went down, all civilian entrances to the country were blocked. And you still reported to your clinic on that day, your receptionist said. There was no way you could have flown in. You were just the first person I thought of when I heard that description, okay?

“And to be honest...I don’t know what I would’ve done if it had been you. Probably would’ve yelled at you, then thrown you ass-first into a SHIELD evac shuttle. But before that, I probably would’ve kissed you. First good thing I’d have seen there.”

Tony being a sap told Stephen it was safe to snuggle up to him again.

“That reminds me,” Stephen said, “I saw that recording of you, with the wings. That was certainly a sight.”

“Oh, yeah, that one.” Tony seemed glad the topic was brought up. “That was cool, wasn’t it? We couldn’t explain it at the start. But then Bruce and I put our heads together, and we came up with something.”

“I don’t suppose you could tell me what it is?”

Tony smirked at him. “Look at you all curious,” he teased. “Well, it’s more or less public knowledge, so I guess I could tell you. Did you catch any videos of that one new girl that was with us?”

“The teenager? Sure.”

“Well...that teenager has a heck of a lot of magic packed in her growing body. She doesn’t even have full control over it yet, and doesn’t know exactly what she can do. Turns out, when she and her brother joined the fight, her brother died, and she _felt_ it. And she released a massive energy surge in response. Vaporized all enemies within a kilometer’s radius of the church. We talked about it with her after the battle. She said things were a blur at the time, but it was possible some of her magic came to me.”

“Her brother died?” Stephen asked. “Poor kid...”

“Yeah...but can you _imagine?_ Having so much power inside you that you can’t contain it. And being barely able to focus it, because you barely understand it yourself.”

 _I have a pretty good idea,_ was his instinctive response. But he couldn’t make Tony suspect anything.

“Does that mean the wings came from the girl?”

“Apparently,” Tony blithely replied. “I mean, there’s no other explanation. I happened to be within her blast radius, so my enemies got dusted, too. Her magic just happened to take the form of wings. It makes sense.”

 _That’s_ really _not how magic makes sense,_ Stephen wanted to interject, but he wasn’t about to argue that point. It was to his benefit that Tony had the wrong idea.

Besides, it had been a tiring day, and his body was still healing. He was getting sleepier by the minute.

“Tell me one thing, Tony,” he mumbled, “was it worth it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did she save you? The girl. When she sent you those wings.”

“Yeah,” Tony said thoughtfully, “yeah, I think she did. Come to think of it, I probably owe her one, now.” He ran his hands lightly through Stephen’s hair. “Jesus, you sound wiped. You should get some rest.”

“...Maybe I should.”

“Just a sec...”

Tony adjusted his embrace, so he and Stephen could lie side by side more comfortably.

“Just need to make sure you don’t fall,” he whispered fondly to Stephen.

"For you?" Stephen murmured, smiling. "Too late."

As he drifted off to sleep in Tony’s arms, Stephen pondered, not for the first time, how it felt like some unseen hand guided events so that things could fall into place.

So that he could be so lucky.

Stephen knew that going back Kamar-Taj was the best option - and that someday, it may be the _only_ option.

But right now, he would do anything to stretch one moment with Tony out into a thousand.

To make this miracle last for as long as he could.


	9. The Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year after Ultron is defeated, Tony faces off against envoys of the Dark Dimension. Stephen is forced to make difficult choices.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a time jump between the last chapter and this one. Basically skipped Civil War. This chapter and the next covers the events at the end of the Doctor Strange movie.
> 
> A lot of things happened during the jump; important stuff is alluded to in the narration. I have no beta for this piece, so if there are any plot holes or concerns, please ping me and I’ll do my best to address them (and maybe fix up this chapter while I'm at it).
> 
> Be prepared for some exposition, because goshdarnit, I do love me some of that :D

Tony recently gave him a holographic anniversary card, to commemorate the first night Stephen stayed over at his Malibu home.

That wasn’t what it said, of course. It featured a slowly turning hologram of the arc reactor, and said, discreetly, _“One magical year.”_

Stephen kept it in a drawer in his office at the Stark laboratory in Midtown. In a building owned by Tony Stark, in a desk manned by his contractual employee, it could mean anything...but by that time, everyone and their mother knew what it meant.

Activating and then looking at it never failed to put him in a pensive mood. It put a smile on his face, too, of course - but as that smile began to fade, mere seconds later, he got to thinking of a lot of things.

For example: of how so much time had passed. Had he and Tony really been together for over a year?

\- of how so much had changed. The Avengers were fractured, Steve Rogers and his crew had departed the team, and so Tony called on Peter to help out at missions more often - a fact that left Stephen wondering if, ultimately, he made the right call by telling Tony about Peter.

\- and of how there were so few secrets left between him and Tony, and the rest of the world.

The last secret remaining was that he knew how to do magic.

 _Some_ magic.

Including magic that he should never invoke again.

So he couldn’t help but find it odd that Tony would choose the word “magical” for his card...

Over time, Stephen had come to believe that last secret accounted for the surreal feeling of _incompleteness_ that hung like a shadow over his otherwise relatively calm, productive days.

He would have to tell Tony.

And maybe the rest of the world, too.

Someday.

He was in no hurry.

He had time.

 

***

 

His phone rang. The caller ID said it was Peter.

Stephen picked up immediately.

 _“Doc,”_ Peter breathed at the other end of the line. _“Oh thank God, Doc...”_

The boy’s voice was hoarse, out of breath, lacking its usual excited pitch. He must be on the move.

And something must be wrong.

“Peter?”

_“It’s -- I -- I’m sorry. It’s Mr. Stark. Doc, I’m so sorry -- “_

Stephen was already on his feet, grabbing his coat from the rack by the office door and putting it on.

“Calm down, Peter,” he instructed. “What is it? What happened to Tony?”

_“I -- I wasn’t fast enough and -- he got him. The bad guy got Mr. Stark, Doc, and this wizard lady, too.”_

A chill ran down Stephen’s spine.

“Where are you?”

_“I’ve got them. I’m taking them to...Metro-General. It’s the closest. Please say you’ll be there, Doc, please...”_

Metro-General. His old hospital.

“I’ll be there, Peter,” he promised. “Focus. Be careful.”

His first impulse after ending the call was to reach for the car keys in his coat pocket.

But his shaking hand hesitated as it touched metal.

It wasn’t a long drive to the hospital - but taking traffic into consideration, it might take too long.

Peter moved quickly. Stephen didn't have time.

First, he made sure that the door to his office was closed and locked. That no one outside was looking in.

Then he closed his eyes. Formed symbols with his trembling hands.

And opened a portal.

 

***

 

He ended up in a mop closet - thankfully empty of any service personnel.

As soon as the portal closed, he opened the physical door, and stepped out.

People were running past him, barely acknowledging his presence. He looked around for Christine. He needed to speak with her. Let her know he was there to help.

On his way, he was distracted by a television near the nurses’ station. It was tuned in to the news.

 _“What you’re seeing now is_ live footage _of the Spider-Man carrying two bodies - are those human? - that seem to be in cocoons of some sort. He appears to be heading to Metro-General, the closest hospital to the site of the spatial anomaly.”_

 _Spatial anomaly?_ They must mean the large trans-dimensional portal that was closing in the distance.

The news camera barely caught it. It was shaky, and doing its best to follow the Spider-Man - Peter - as he sped between buildings, two cocooned adult human bodies slung from his slender but inhumanly strong shoulders.

Stephen knew what those cocoons meant. Peter wouldn’t have taken that sort of precaution unless -

\- unless the bodies he was carrying were bleeding out.

The hospital staff must have heard the news prior to this broadcast. Spider-Man was coming to Metro-General with two important patients in tow. All hands were needed on deck.

He didn’t have time to find Christine. As soon as he took his eyes off the screen, he saw Peter dropping in for a neat landing in front of the hospital.

_“Help! I need some help over here!”_

Stephen gravitated to Peter’s panicked voice. And Peter, upon seeing him, seemed to crumple into a mass of nerves.

 _“Doc...Doctor Strange!”_ He hurriedly handed over the cocooned bodies to the medics waiting outside the hospital. He made sure to cut the cocoons open first, but he did so hurriedly, and the medics on standby had to do the bulk of the extraction themselves.

His job done, he rushed toward Stephen, who, instinctively, opened his arms to welcome him in.

Peter held on to him tightly, as if to keep from falling.

“Doc,” he sobbed into Stephen’s shoulder, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It’s my fault.”

Stephen looked around. He noticed that some of the hospital staff were staring.

Given his close relationship with Tony, it was perhaps not strange that he would have a close relationship with other superheroes, too.

Just not _this_ close.

Assuming Peter still wanted to keep his identity secret, Stephen had to take the boy far away from prying eyes.

“They’re in good hands now,” he whispered to the boy. “I need you to tell me what happened. But not here.”

Medics rushed past them with two gurneys. Stephen watched them both speed by, eyes wide.

They were on their way to different operating theatres. In one room, no doubt, Christine was already waiting to receive her patient. Stephen just had no idea which patient it was going to be.

On one gurney, covered in blood, was the Ancient One.

On the other, helmet and armor crushed in several places, faceplate torn off, was the Iron Man.

 

***

 

The storage room where he’d entered was the most private place he could think of on short notice. He led Peter inside, then closed and locked the door.

The first thing Peter did was pull his mask off. The boy wasn’t in good shape, either, Stephen noted - there were nasty-looking bruises on his face and neck.

He did a quick check for more injuries while Peter tried desperately to stop sobbing. Thankfully, there didn’t seem to be anything serious.

“I’m sorry,” he kept saying. “If I’d been faster, if I could have just - ”

“All right, Peter,” Stephen began, “first, breathe. Then tell me everything.”

Peter did the best he could. When agitated, he wasn’t the best storyteller, but he did give a fair bit of detail.

Tony had received an alert about a supernatural threat manifesting in New York. He suited up immediately and left to confront it. He called for Peter’s help, and Peter immediately responded.

But Tony barely understood the threat, himself. Loosely guided by his anomaly-detecting devices, he found a way into a sort of dimension where all of New York was “twisted around and weird,” in Peter’s words.

And when their little team got there, they found themselves facing a human sorcerer named Kaecilius, his minions, and a human-like THING made of darkness and flame.

They also found three powerful entities: magic-wielding monks, it looked like - two men and a woman, already on the attack.

The two men called the woman “Master.” She did most of the fighting, and the fighting was intense. One of the monks died. The other one was thrown into a glowing portal created by the woman, pushed out of the fight into - where? Peter didn’t even have an idea.

(Stephen interrupted to ask Peter to describe the men. Peter gave descriptions that matched two people whom Stephen knew well: Mordo and Wong.

(So, the former had perished. The latter was the one whom the Ancient One had taken out of the fight - no doubt to save his life.

(He closed his eyes and spared a moment of silence for Mordo. He had been a good mentor. A good friend.)

First, Tony, Peter and “the wizard lady” focused on the humanoid “thing,” and took it down, but not without sustaining injuries. Afterwards, it was time to face Kaecilius and his minions.

And they won, but just barely.

They were all already badly beaten up by the “thing,” and Kaecilius had damn near killed them. Tony, in the end, was no magic user. And “the wizard lady” must have been fighting the group for a while; by the time Tony and Peter arrived, she looked like she was on her last legs. Their victory over Kaecilius cost them both dearly.

Before she lost consciousness, “the wizard lady” opened a portal out of that dimension, so that Peter could evacuate them all.

“Mr. Stark wanted me to keep my distance from the magic users,” Peter said, tears welling up in his eyes again. “So I stayed as far away as I could, using my web shooters to help out as much as possible. But because of the distance, I wasn’t fast enough to reach them when they were injured. I could’ve saved them if I were. I’m sorry.”

The boy was shaken. Stephen sympathized - it was his first real encounter with interdimensional magic. And in that encounter, someone he looked up to was badly (mortally?) wounded, and he saw people die.

Stephen pulled the boy close again, muttering assurances that he did good, that nothing was his fault.

In his arms, Peter was trembling.

“Please save them, Doctor Strange,” Peter said against his chest. “Please.”

 

***

 

His hands were shaking, too, as he washed them in one of the sinks outside the operating room.

It wasn’t just his nerves - he was scared.

This was no ordinary patient.

Nic West burst in from the operating suite.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. "You can't do surgery in your condition."

Stephen scowled at him.

"No, Nic. You don’t know how important your patient is. You don’t get to be a dick right now."

Nic arched his eyebrows and glanced at Stephen's hands, which Stephen hid behind his back on impulse.

Stephen sighed.

“I won’t interfere,” he promised, in a gentler tone. “But I’m familiar with enhanced physiology. If there’s something that confuses you, you can ask me.”

Nic didn’t seem to like this answer, but he wasn't about to argue.

“All right,” Nic grumbled. “God knows we need all the help we can get. But I’d’ve thought you’d be in the other suite, with Christine.”

Stephen said nothing as he walked past.

Other doctors were already feverishly trying to stabilize the patient on the table. Nic joined them again.

Stephen immediately saw that nothing they did was working.

They were losing her.

The Ancient One was fading fast.

His hands would not be of use here.

He closed his eyes, willed his astral self to emerge.

And an in instant he found himself standing outside his own body, face to face with the Ancient One’s astral form.

 

***

 

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Stephen and the Ancient One stood side by side, looking out over a peaceful cityscape.

All around them, time stood as close to still as possible. The earthward fluttering of the snow was barely perceptible.

Stephen supposed it was beautiful, as the Ancient One said. But he did not feel like he had the luxury of time to appreciate it.

“You can’t stay here,” he pointed out to her. “You’re dying.”

“Yes,” she nonchalantly replied. “I have very little time. I wish to use it to speak with you.”

“Instead of letting me help save your life?”

Amusement glittered in her eyes.

“You're still arrogant enough to think you can stop the inevitable?”

“That’s because I can,” he said firmly, meeting her gaze. “You know I can save you. One way or another.”

Her face fell. She knew what he was offering. Of course she did. She was the one who had warned him what calling upon the magic of the Dark Dimension again would cost him.

“Perhaps, then, you chose the wrong person to try and save, Doctor Strange,” she said softly. She turned back to the cityscape. “All things end. All things die...and I am tired.”

It was a low blow. Stephen had to make a choice, and he chose the Ancient One.

It was mainly because her injuries seemed more severe...

...but was he also hoping that, in turn, she would help him save Tony?

Or was he hoping for this - some time to speak with her? Some time to understand?

She said she wanted to talk, so he let her.

"When you first came to us, I looked not only into your past, but also your many possible futures. Everything you could be, had the potential to be, up to this point. Past this point, I could see no further.

“I saw us fighting to the death. I saw you victimized by your own passions, your ego. I saw you believing Dormammu's empty promises, and trading your broken soul for power.

"But in many of those possibilities, regardless of whether or not you turned to the dark side, you became Sorcerer Supreme." She looked at him, her face unreadable. "I think that's a sign, don't you?"

"A sign of what?"

"That you're meant for greater things than this, Doctor Strange."

He said nothing. She turned away again. She had more to say.

"But your early discovery of the dark arts was a complication. It cut a new path - one I had not foreseen. Someone...interfered with you. With your fate."

"Interfered?" Stephen asked. "Who? And...how?"

"Do you remember Jonathan Pangborn?"

How could he forget? He was Stephen's lodestar, the man who had led him to Kamar-Taj.

And later, when Stephen learned about the dark rituals, he was Stephen's inspiration for coming back to New York, for "settling for a miracle" and abandoning his mystic studies.

Even more recently, he had returned to Stephen’s life in a way that he could only define as “haunting.”

“I saw him,” Stephen disclosed. “He appeared to me. Several times. He might have been trying to tell me something...but I could never hear him speak. I thought - for a while - that I was just imagining him.”

The Ancient One nodded thoughtfully.

“That’s because he is no longer here, in this dimension,” she explained. “He’s been taken. By Dormammu."

_Taken._

Stephen wasn't sure how to process that. The Pangborn he had seen was fully human. Untouched by dark magic. No purple aura around him, no mark on his forehead.

But then, he knew: if it had _not_ been Pangborn, he didn't have the expertise to know it at a glance. What mattered was that the apparition _looked_ like Pangborn.

His untrained eyes would have been so easy to deceive.

"He was in the fight," the Ancient One went on "as one of Dormammu's generals, allied with Kaecilius. He’d shed his mortal body and been absorbed into the Dark Dimension. That could only mean one thing, Stephen: he drew too much power, more than he needed. And he let Dormammu in."

The “thing” made of fire and darkness - the “thing” that had almost killed them.

 _That_ was Pangborn?

"Then...he was the one?” Stephen ventured. “The one who sent me those pages from the Book of Cagliostro?"

"He was the channel. Dormammu was the one who sent you that dream, through Pangborn's fated connection to you. Pangborn told me as much as we fought - though by this point, it was more like Dormammu speaking through Pangborn's body."

Stephen took a moment to process this. He hadn’t been there to see it for himself, but Peter’s recollection was enough to convince him that the “thing” that had attacked them was truly terrifying.

That “thing,” which used to be human.

Which had led him to Kamar-Taj, and ultimately to Dormammu.

Which had tried to reach out to him several times, even as his soul was perhaps being rent apart.

"Pangborn was my mistake," the Ancient One continued. "Jonathan never learned much of the mystic arts while he lived with us. I healed him - by pouring dark energy into his body, and later teaching him how to do it himself.

"Dark energy isn't like most other magic. When it enters a body, living or dead, it carves grooves in the flesh, where it makes a home. Even after it has been purged, the body keeps a space for it to return." She touched her forehead. There was nothing there, at the time. But Stephen knew what she meant. "This mark - it's just the most visible sign."

"Why was he a mistake?" Stephen pressed. "You healed him. Your intentions were good. You couldn't have foreseen what would happen to him afterwards."

Hearing this mysteriously brought a smile to the Ancient One’s face.

"I'm just now finding it funny," she began in a more lighthearted tone, "that you had always been so curious, yet you never once asked me how I came to be Sorcerer Supreme. Or, for that matter, how I learned magic.

“You came to Kamar-Taj hungry to learn about spells, about magical concepts, and how to improve yourself - but rarely about other people. Like Jonathan, I did not turn to dark magic because I knew enough about it. It was a choice someone else made for me, at the hour of my greatest need."

Stephen blinked.

"Are you saying," he said carefully. "that someone healed you with dark magic? The way you did to Jonathan? And that was how you got your mark?"

"I was not _healed_ , Stephen," she gently answered. "I was brought back to life. The only way dark magic can."

He had so many questions. She must have seen it on his face.

"Let's just say," she said, a touch of mischief entering her voice, "I've always had a complicated view of people who think of themselves as healers. Even the ones who use the more modern term 'doctor.' Some of them tend to think they alone have all the answers. Especially when they act out of good intentions...or love."

The last word felt like a punch in the gut. The Ancient One looked at her old pupil like she _knew_ \- everything about Tony and himself. Simply knew.

"Yet here I am, making a healer's mistakes," she sighed. “With a life as long as mine, grave mistakes are inevitable. But it is ending soon, and now is not the time for regret. You have questions, Doctor Strange. You should ask them.”

Stephen scrambled to put the questions in his head in order. The most important ones first.

"If you've seen my possible futures," he said, "you must have seen me getting to this point."

"Yes." She waited for him to continue.

"...Was this really the best way? And if it wasn’t - why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you just erase my memory, when I got those spells from the Dark Dimension? Why didn’t you force me to come back to Kamar-Taj with you, when you asked me to and I said no?”

Her smile was kind.

"Haven't you noticed, Stephen? Every step of the way, you chose what you felt would make you happy. First, you sought out the mystic arts. Then you gave them up, when you learned you could have your hands back. You turned to dark forces to save a life that you loved above all others, including your own. And afterwards, you chose to stay with him, though it meant someone else being the hero of your own story.

"As time went on, your choices stopped being about your selfish desires, and you barely even noticed. We all have one life, but many paths through it, and in this one, you finally learned how to rise above your ego, and find fulfillment in surrender.

“Even if I knew there were easier ways, or better ones...how could I have denied you the _one lesson_ you were put on this Earth to learn?"

Stephen wasn’t sure he understood. Yes, in Kamar-Taj, the Ancient One had always told him to “silence his ego”...so he knew, on a superficial level, that humility was a major lesson she had wanted him to learn.

But love?

That was a revelation.

“Dormammu's first goal was to corrupt you," the Ancient One continued grimly. "Having failed that, he set his sights on another powerful mortal - someone whom the rest of this non-magical world will find difficult to subdue. That’s why they’re here, in your city. For you. And for that person.”

“That person” could only have a particular name, and speaking it took all the air out of Stephen’s lungs:

"Tony."

The Ancient One watched his face as she resumed speaking:

"You have two options for saving him, if you wish to do it yourself and not leave his life in others’ hands.

"The first is the easiest: do what Dormammu wants. Open your friend's body to the Dark Dimension, flood it with dark energy. That way, you can not only save his life - if he dies, you can bring him back from the dead.

"As someone who knows the rituals of Cagliostro, it may be possible for you to control the magic in his body, for as long as necessary. Dormammu can ultimately control him, but until he steps in, Stark's life is yours to command. While you live, he lives. And while Dormammu doesn’t have control over you, you have control over him."

It was a distasteful suggestion. It made Stephen’s skin crawl.

"It's also possible that I'll fail," he pointed out, "and Tony could find a way to draw dark magic on his own. He could grow too powerful for me."

"Indeed," The Ancient One agreed. "Your potential for the mystic arts may be formidable, but it is far from realized. And, as a magical conduit, himself, Stark can manipulate the dark energy in his body according to his own will. And self-destruct in spite of you. How much faith do you have in him emerging sane from the procedure?”

Faith? If it was a question of faith, Stephen had much of it. His smart guy had an extraordinarily tough mind - the procedure wouldn’t harm it, and Stephen would do everything in his own power to make sure of that.

The real question was, whether or not he would subject Tony to so much suffering, just to save his life.

Stephen still remembered Sokovia, and the darkness that had plagued him. How close to death he had come. And the nightmares he got as a reward for surviving.

Tony already had nightmares of his own, after Sokovia and Steve Rogers’ departure. What would more do to him?

"The other option," the Ancient One continued, "is to draw dark energy into yourself. Keep Dormammu from ever finding a way to him. Steady your hands, and try to save him with medicine."

Medicine?

After speaking so much about the perils and benefits of magic, she would suggest something so...mundane?

"That--that can't work." Stephen shook his head. "Dormammu is already looking for me. If I draw from the Dark Dimension again, he'll find me."

"Yes,” she said somberly, “without a doubt, he will find you. If that is the path you will choose, do you think you will be strong enough to resist Dormammu?"

Stephen couldn’t answer. And, for a moment, he thought he could hear an old familiar laughter echoing at the back of his mind.

His astral body felt the chill of fear go through it.

"But he's more than a friend, isn't he?" The Ancient One tilted her head slightly. "What are you willing to risk just to save him?"

The chill hardened, turned to solid steel.

Stephen had his answer. And there was no time to waste.


End file.
